Turn left. Turn right. Park there. No, park here. The decisions you make in a car are important ones. If you take a wrong turn, you’re late. Or you miss your destiny. Park in the wrong spot and a bird shits on your windshield or a shopping cart slams into your door.
Today, I didn’t make any wrong turns. But, I would debate that I didn’t make a right one either. I went to work. Did my job. And left. So dull. So humdrum. With nothing but a keyboard and a stereo at home, it gets lonely. It could be worse, though, and I understand it. I could be a vegetable on a cot in a home for vegetables. My days could be filled with bullets and bombs raining from the sky.
Or I could have married Crystal.
So, yeah, I know things could be worse.
It’s why I’m trying to make them better. Tough when you’ve got nearly 40 years of sadness wrapped up in a tortilla on the plate. Doused with hot sauce and just calling out your name…Wow, that was awful. I try to hard too often.
That was what I call funny. Think about it, maybe you’ll find it funny, too.
I put on some Neil Young. It becomes instantly obvious why I am so depressed all the time. I listen to Neil Young too much. Funny thing is, he’s probably a really happy person. Gets it all out in song. Which is why I have decided to just write. Even meaningless shit that a person who one days stumbles upon this because he/she/it searched for the Ben Affleck Jerk Off Video (somewhere Eric is smiling as I put another fucking hit generator in my shit) or maybe even the more elusive “women fucing in stool”. That one came from Abu Dhabi. So, I’ve got fans everywhere.
And there I go. Trying to tell a story and I get distracted my awful wit.
Meanwhile, Neil Young is singing about Mother Nature and burned out basements and I’m staring at a wart on my knee. It’s ugly. And kind of big. I finally bought some Compound W today. After months of contemplating it. The last time I got some, I didn’t close the cap tight and it turned into rubber cement and became useless. Seven bucks down the drain. That wart was on my finger. I just cut it off. It didn’t come back.
This one on my knee, however, it’s been there off and on for years. Since I was in college. The second time around. Just rip out the core, someone once told me. And I’ve done that. It never works. Well, it does for a while. Sometimes a few years. But it comes back. Always in the same place. I’m not very patient about such things. I want to get rid of the fucking thing. It’s gross to look at. And I’m sure any prospective woman in my life (ha!) feels the same way. Kind of like the half-assed hair cut that I’ve had for the past two years. As my buddy John was cutting my hair last night, it came up about the shitty way it was cut. How the Super Cuts ladies always seem to want to leave me with the front a little big longer. To. Cover. Up. The. Baldness. Guess what, honey (honeys, I guess), it doesn’t work.
Every damn time I’ve said “just cut it short. And don’t worry about me balding. I’m not concerned about tit.” And every time, they leave it too long. The do a good job covering it up. And I don’t notice until the wind hit’s the hair. Or it grows for two days. Except this one time. It was in the store in New Bern. A black lady I’d never seen was the only person there. She was cutting one lady’s hair and three people came in and left when they saw her, saying only, I’ll come back later. I sat there, waiting. I don’t care who cuts my hair. I especially don’t care if she’s got long fingernails and is black, which this lady, named Tanya, had and was.
My favorite was this short blonde-haired douche. He had on one of those Wal-Mart Ed Hardy rip-off shirts on. And torn jeans that were brand new except for the tears. I’ll never understand people who do that. Tears in jeans have to be earned. Even if you just go out and skateboard in them for 5 minutes, EARN them you bozos.
Anyway, this guy comes in and asks if anyone else is working. Just like that.
“Hi, I’m Tanya, the waits going to be 20 minutes or so.”
“Is anyone else working?” douche says very loudly.
“No, it’s just me today.” she replies. It’s almost sexy. But those fingernails make it hard.
“Guess I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He turns and walks toward the door. Then flips back and says “are you working?”
“No.”
“Great.” And he leaves.
People really are dickheads. It’s shit like that that makes one wonder why we want to couple up. But then you remember how good that actually is. And I’m not even talking about the sex. Well, not all of it. Not like I really remember what sex is. Jerking off? I can tell you stories…
Exactly. We’ve all got stories. The hopes and dreams of the common man are just as noble as those of a king.
Shit. There I go stealing Barton Fink’s prose. I should be ashamed.
The horror. The horror.
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