April 15, 2014

Strangers on a train

This is the best thing to wear for today, you understand. Because I don’t like women in skirts and the best thing is to wear pantyhose or some pants under a short skirt, I think. Then you have the pants under the skirt and then you can pull the stockings up over the pants underneath the skirt. And you can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape. So I think this is the best costume for today.  I have to think these things up.  You know?  Mother wanted me to come out in a kimono.  We had quite a fight.
April 14, 2014

This is the best thing to wear for today, you understand. Because I don’t like women in skirts and the best thing is to wear pantyhose or some pants under a short skirt, I think. Then you have the pants under the skirt and then you can pull the stockings up over the pants underneath the skirt. And you can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape. So I think this is the best costume for today. I have to think these things up. You know? Mother wanted me to come out in a kimono. We had quite a fight.

I’m young, white, college educated, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not planning on doing anything wrong, neither now nor at any time in the future. I would, however, very much like to get this out in the open: Monsanto does not condone cannibalism, neither endorses the systematic harvesting of mortal flesh for mass consumption nor drools at the thought of rendering a bountiful population of citizens into edible chunks of protein. None of the fine folks employed by Monsanto fantasize about a future in which farming of their fellow man is a viable practice. You might be wondering how I can be so sure, and to that I can only reveal that I have extremely credible evidence as well as trustworthy informants on the inside.

Usually when I take long bus journeys, I like to pass the time counting dead dogs on the side of the road. Once when I was busy calculating the quantity of deceased canines I had seen whiz past the window, from behind my head I hear a soft voice say, “Maybe they’re just sleeping.” I turned my head to discover that it was the voice of a very old man slowly licking the paper of his rolled cigarette. The bus continued to hurtle south, as the withered palm trees and collapsing shacks all blended together into an infinite gray and green blur.

“No, no, no.” I shake my head becoming increasingly agitated. “They aren’t asleep.” I scream at the tops of my lungs, “I know roadkill when I see it. I’ve counted thirty-eight in the last two hours.”

The unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, the last match from his ratty old matchbox poised to scratch the rough sandpaper surface, the gentleman pauses and slowly turns his head to stare straight into my darting, manic eyeballs. It was exactly in that very moment that I remembered how right after my ninth birthday, Daddy threw a tantrum that made him punch a hole in the wall, break his right hand, and cause his secretary to walk out. That made him punch the wall with his left hand breaking that one too. That is how I ended up being Daddy’s secretary during the summer before fourth grade. We worked from home in an office that Little Steve the Child Molester built in 1964.

Every Christmas Daddy throws a “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” party and invites everybody. Everybody loves my Daddy except for a small percentage. We leave out Jesus because he makes Daddy angry, and both of his hands are already broken. We don’t believe in singing Christmas carols. The only music we are allowed to hear is “The Very Best of Peter Paul and Mary”.

Today, we’re making our annual “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” dinner. Mamma soaks a ham in Dr. Pepper while Daddy kicks out the cats and organizes all of his stray bullets into one singular kitchen drawer. My little brother who everyone calls “The Son Of Jasper” is wandering around with his guinea pig appropriately named Yo-Yo Ma.

Mamma says, “Just be sure you put Yo-Yo Ma back in that cage when the company comes. I don’t want us to look like trash.”

As a busy mom, I don’t have a lot of time to waste, because by noon, my carpenter neighbor, Jonas, comes over for a quickie.
April 13, 2014

As a busy mom, I don’t have a lot of time to waste, because by noon, my carpenter neighbor, Jonas, comes over for a quickie.

April 13, 2014

Random selection 13 April 2014

Alone

April 11, 2014

I like to be alone. Sometimes I feel stimulated spending time with others, but it’s not necessary to interact. If I need to go out, I just drop in on Fiona, and no matter the nature of her plans for that evening I invite myself along, and she will inevitably say ok because she is one of those people who can’t say no because she has low self-esteem and must please everyone at all times.

Everyone else thinks, “Why is he even here, he’s not even friends with us, Fiona always brings these weirdos along,” and they’ll get angry at Fiona even, and she’ll pick up on it since she’s super emotionally tuned-in.

Becoming self-aware may mean discovering aspects of yourself that you didn’t notice before, like, that you’re double-jointed or divorced. Looking through old photos can be a great window into your relationships—a big piece of the self-awareness puzzle. Study the body language of the people in the photos with you. Do they seem to like you, or are they glaring at you and hitting you? Are there any pictures of you whitewater rafting? This can be a huge help in determining whether or not you like doing that.

Self-awareness can also be the gateway to personal change. If you want to quit smoking, for example, you have to know that you’re a smoker first, so look down at your hand and see if there’s a cigarette there. If not, then what is that in your hand? A gun? What are you, some kind of murderer?