Suddenly, I was bum. Here I was the head cook at a casino and the next thing you know it’s all “Can I borrow ten bucks?”
I lied and told her I was moving on to bigger and better things—things like food stamps and welfare….
Laziness filled my eyes.
Like most most young American girls, she was under the impression that her man would be successful, probably in the lawyer, rancher, or doctor category.
But like everyone in America, especially the women, she was fucking lied to.
I was a bum, saying things like “Gee, I hope you get those extra hours you were talking about. Give us a kiss. I’m gonna take a nap.”
Looking back on my life, it’s pretty amazing I got laid at all.
Not the “I watch a lot of tv and mostly eat fast food, and the people who read literature and eat health food are snobs” type of snobs, either. The people who have a thing they like and a very specific way of liking it, that’s what type.
The Scotch Guy—I know a few of these. Scotch is almost a religion to one. The money he spends, wow. He knows everything about Scotch: what you serve it in, the temperature at which you’re supposed to drink it, even HOW you’re supposed to drink it. I’ve had Scotch with him, but I miss the subtleties he so readily picks up on. I even followed the rules, too. It all just tastes like liquid leather to me.
I’ll take a Budweiser, thanks.
Wine snobs are a dime a dozen. I guess I’m sort of a wine snob, in that I refuse to drink wine that isn’t French. Not really, though, because it isn’t based on the product per se. I would drink a shit French wine over a hoity-toity offering from California any day. It’s not really snobbery based on taste and wine knowledge, but snobbery based on me being a Francophile.
French things are just better. Period.
There’s beer snobs and whiskey snobs and tequila snobs, but it isn’t just alcohol. There’s still coffee snobs around. Not like there were in the 90s, holy shit, but you still run into them. Nowadays most people just drink coffee-flavored sugary cream-milk and SAY they’re drinking coffee.
There’s music snobs, too, and I guess these are the only ones I don’t really like. Music snobs are just dicks. Sorry.
I’m a tea snob, but if you actually drink fruity tea from a bag with a little string on it, I won’t mock you—at least not to your face.
It all comes down to enjoying life, and if you latch onto something and learn all about it and make it kind of a hobby, more power to you. I like that you like something so much. I like that you are discerning, and love yourself enough to treat yourself well. You deserve it.
We all do.
Japanese tea farm below Mt. Fuji. How you can drink tea from anywhere else is beyond me.
I see a lot of sexuality on Tumblr, and it is good: all of it. Porn rolls by on my dash on a constant basis, everything from “artistic nudes” to nipple clamps, but also posts talking about sexuality. I see a lot of posts explaining what pansexuality is, what bisexuality is, what homosexuality is, the differences and similarities. I even heard the word cissexuality.
It sounded like a stupid word, so I went looking and sure enough I was right. It was just a stupid word right there in the dictionary. Someone just made it up.
We have this insatiable need to put the square pegs in the square holes and round pegs in the round holes, don’t we? People will never be so simple, which is why we should all stop talking about it and just love and fuck however we like. We should be free to do this and to change as well.
That’s what all this discussion is really about, right? Freedom? All this LGBQTV crap (or whatever the fuck that stupid initialism is).
It’s about freedom, freedom to not be confined, defined, pigeonholed, put in a box.
Or do we really need to take away a person’s dignity and mystery, and replace it with meaning?
- No shit?
- You gotta be kidding me!
- Aw, I think you’re really swell, too
- I like you, but I’m not ‘in like’ with you
- Love is just a word, in the same way that age is just a number. You sure your parents are out of town?
“Write a short piece (your weapon of choice: poem, story, scene from a play, dialogue, soliloquy, etc.) conveying your own definition of “love.” But there’s a catch: you may not use the word itself in your piece (nor any easy synonyms either!). Not even once.”
This is a prompt from Letters For Burning, btw. I call this: At The Park There Was This Great Big Play Area Made Out of Wood
There were things to climb on and slide down and swing from. It was intentionally jumbled and convoluted to spark hiding and exploring by the children. In one corner of the play area was a large sandbox. My kid, when he was extra little, “dug” it―haha. He liked to play trucks there and just, you know, get all sandy and dirty in general. One summer afternoon, he was playing there and I was sitting on a bench nearby sucking down a bottle of cheap whiskey and doing lines of coke off the back of my hand.
Just kidding. I was reading a book and keeping an eye on him.
Anyway, there was a big No sign over the sandbox which said NO BARE FEET. SHOES REQUIRED. Of course, I ignored it. I have trouble following rules that are made up out of boredom and applied for no reason. Besides, it was a fucking sandbox and my kid wanted to take off his shoes. A bare foot in cool sand on a hot summer day feels good.
So he was playing barefoot in the sandbox with his little Tonka truck, minding his own business. He was chattering to himself and making truck noises with his lips. A mother approached us and pointed out the sign. “I believe the kids are supposed to keep their shoes on in there,” she said to me, feigning helpfulness.
“Oh?” I said, feigning ignorance. “Really?” It’s my favorite ploy, feigning ignorance. It makes it seem like I fit in, like I’m of one of them.
“Hmm,” I said. “Well, I’ll be.” I went back to my book.
“I really do think they want all the kids to have on shoes while they’re in the sandbox,” she persisted, a little firmness in her voice.
“I wonder why?”
“It’s for safety, I’m sure.”
“Ah, safety,” I said, nodding my head in artificial realization. “One of the better excuses.”
She was quiet a moment, uncertain. Then she folded her arms tightly across her chest and walked over to the next bench, where she proceeded to shoot dirty looks at me.
I ignored her, of course. What could she do? Nothing, that’s what. There was no one in the entire park but us kids and parents, and, as far as I could tell, I was the only authority figure present.
He is now heading full speed into adulthood. You’re welcome.