Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
This one didn't actually happen to me, but to a coworker, who immediately called and relayed it to me:
Customer: I'm looking for a kids' book. Nothing too simple. Something for a kid about twelve or thirteen. Stephen: Well, there's a newish series of books out called Diary of A Wimpy Kid. It's a memoir with illustrations about a kid who... Customer: It's not a Gay Comic is it? Stephen: Uhhhh. No. Customer: Because I don't want to start him on the gay stuff too early. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN???
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These things always seem to happen in Qughincy. Which speaks volumes about why everyone hates working in this store.
Probable Child Molester: "Ummm...do you guys have the red, yellow and blue Pokemon cards that come out tomorrow?" Me: "Well...no. It doesn't come out until tomorrow." Probable Child Molester: "But you have them right? I just...I just came all this way from Hingham because I need to have them for tomorrow." Me: "We don't have them. They're not out yet. And, honestly, I'm not sure if we'll even have them tomorrow. We haven't been restocked on Pokemon cards in months now." Probable Child Molester: "But...I mean is there any way you could get them for me today?" Customer Loitering By Back Issues: "Your kids bugging you to get them?" Probable Child Molester: "I don't have kids." Customer Loitering By Back Issues: "What are you forty-five and you still collect Pokemon cards? Why don't you stop wasting this guy's time and go spend your money on some online classes or something. Pokemon's a children's game. Are you a children?" Probable Chld Molester (ignoring him, and talking to me): "Could I have a pack of Yu-Gi-Oh! instead?" The first in a series explaining why I'm losing my hair:
Two guys in their mid-twenties walk into the Qughincy (the "ugh" in Quincy is silent, but always present) Store. One is looking for "The List" series from Marvel. So I lead him to The List section, show him what titles we have, tell him that I JUST sold the last two copies of the Daredevil and Punisher issues. He is clearly about to say something along the lines of "shucks", "rats", or "goddamn it" when his friend, from across the store starts shouting "You needs to get Fantastic Four The List. And Halo The List. And Superman The List. You needs to get GIJoe The List and--" "Buddy." The first guy says. "Those comics don't exist." "Yea, they dos. I saw the movies." We continue looking for non-List comics, pretending we didn't hear the movie comment. But after a minute or two, the guy starts up again "You needs to get GI Joe, it was bomb-ass. And Daredevil was the shit. You seen the Watchmen comics? Shit be like--" The first guy interrupts. "Look, if you like those comics so much, you should buy them. God knows it wouldn't hurt you to read every once in a while." The second guy pulls his cap rim down and says "Fuck you, dillweed. I reads. I reads the youtubes all the time." A couple of weeks ago, I was having a bad day. Not the worst day ever, or a terrible no good very bad day, just a a day of annoyances. My new Zune refused to charge, work was chock full o weirdos, the bank closed before I had time to cash my check, the computer at the check cashing place across the street from work went down just as I walked into the place. It was just a meh day.
On the T ride home, I ran into one of my coworkers, who was also having a meh day, and we talked outselves into a slightly better mood. We got off at the same stop, and were walking down the street I live on, when a grizzly looking leather guy approached on a bicycle yelling "Faggots! You fucken faggot want to fuck me? No fucken faggot fucks me fucken faggot!" Now, I know this was not directed at me, or really anyone. This was an insane man on a bicycle who was probably responding to the voices in his head. Still, I couldn't resist yelling "No one wants to fuck you, asshole!" Not one of my better retorts, but I was just taken aback by why people like him exist. A few seconds later, my coworker headed down a side street to get to a party she was headed to. I continued homeward. And, sure enough, crazy guy on bike comes back, only this time he definitely is screaming at me. "You fucken faggot want my ass. Can't get it you nigger loving homo." And he went on that way. I decided if I just didn't respond this time, he'd be bored and spread his crazy somewhere else. I was wrong. While still in sight and hearing range, he turned around and came at me again. There's been a lot of construction on my street for the last few months, so the guy was weaving around orange buckets screaming a very uncreative list of obscenities at me. I was angry. He was determined to make my bad day worse, so I picked up a rock from the sidewalk, and hurled it at his bike. Now, I haven't played baseball since I was in middle school. I've never hurled a javelin, and I can't remember the last time I threw a tennis ball at a dunk tank target in order to drown a clown. But I hit that bike hard. So hard that the guy fell to the side, right hand in the dirt and construction gravel, and right leg under his bike. He yelled "Fuck!" though whether it was in pain, confusion, anger, or just generally crazy, I couldn't tell you. I then ran the rest of the way (which wasn't very far) home. I'm not terribly proud of this action, and karma got me the next day when a big gust of wind blew a bunch of construction sand into my eye. Thus, creating a sty the size of a zeppelin. Yesterday, at work, one of the crazy but amiable guys who always stops into our Harvard store, but never buys anything, ambled up to the counter and said "So you have diabetes, huh?" "No." "You've got a sty in your eye. You should have your blood sugar checked." "I...I got a mess of sand whipped into my face by the wind the other day, and the sty started forming pretty much the next day." "No." He said. "You've got diabetes." While I don't know for a fact that I do or don't have diabetes, I do know for a fact that I received this sty from getting sand whipped. I felt it. I would have seen it, but there was sand in my eye. "Are you a doctor?" "Nope, I've got a cousin who looks like you, and he has diabetes." "Really? I have a cousin who looks like you, and he never knows what he's talking about it." He let out one of those short, sharp laughs that people make when they're hurt, but want to pretend that they find the humor in the situation. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get personal. You should put a warm compress on it, so it will go away quicker." And he looked around for another couple of minutes before walking out without buying anything. I spent the rest of the day looking up diabetes symptoms, and I believe that has helped confirm the fact that I have, not diabetes, but OCD. The only symptom I have, according to their site, is irritability, which may have something to do with the vast amount of crazy people I encounter, and, foolishly, engage. See also landladies. Today, I'm going outside, laying in the grass somewhere and reading some books. Because, hey, crazy people never hang out in parks, right? I am watching Justice League: New Frontier for, approximately, the three hundredth time. This is not an exaggeration. At the end of January, we got a preview screener of the movie, and watched it three or four times a day until the DVD came out. Since the release of the DVD it's been on pretty much non-stop in every store. I should really hate this stupid movie, but I. can't. stop. watching. it.
It has one of my favorite comic book (and now animated movie lines) of all time, when Batman, having just met Martian Manhunter says: "My instincts tell me you're to be trusted, but make no mistake--- It took a seventy-thousand dollar sliver of meteor to stop the one in Metropolis. With you, all I need is a penny for a book of matches." There are currently seventeen customers semi-circled around the TV watching this movie. They have been oohing, ahhing, cheering, and owing. It would be almost cute IF I HAVEN'T HAD TO GO THE BATHROOM FOR THIRTY MINUTES. I am staying calm, though. I appear to be excelling at calm this week. This morning, I got to work a bit early, so I headed down the street to get some breakfast. I was standing in line behind a typical Brookline sneery woman. She ordered an egg and something sandwich, sounded like she said cheeze. I only noticed because she sounded so phony with the way she said cheeeeeeeeeeeeeezuh to the Mexican woman behind the counter. Typical rich, well-to-do- "open minded" person explaining something to a "stupid foreigner". I ordered my bagel while she and her haggard, preppy looking boyfriend sat down and argued. Well, argument is an overstatement. She berated him for the condition of his jacket, while he nodded and mumbled apologies. She let out an enormous sigh when her number was announced, and trudged over to the counter. "What's this?" She asked. "It is an egg and cheese sandwich." The Mexican woman behind the counter said, without a stereotypical accent, or any offensive tone. "Egg and cheese? No. I said egg and CREAM cheese. This is ridiculous. Where's the manager?" "Sure." The employee said. I swear I herd the boyfriend say "Jesus Christ, not again." But I can't be sure. But even if I just imagined it, it was enough to get me giggling. Of course, the woman turned on me. "What's so funny?" "You. Why talk to the manager. Clearly, they misunderstood your order. It took two minutes to make, at most. They could probably make you a new one in the time it takes to get the manager out here." "Well, I'm not paying for..." I stopped listening. Wasn't my argument, and I wasn't finding it funny any more, just annoying and sad. I grabbed my bagel and headed over to the comic book store. I had just unbagged my bagel, when someone started pounding on the door. Cream Cheese Queen. She'd followed me. "We open in forty-five minutes." I said through the door. "I want to talk to you now." "Sorry. You can come back in forty-five minutes when we open." She pounded the door one more time, and walked away. I've spent the rest of the day dreading her return. So far, nothing. But I have had other typical Brookline people. The mid-fortyish father with no control over his son. Not a particularly bratty son. He wasn't loud or obnoxious, but he started watching New Frontier, and after a few minutes, the Dad was ready to go. "Liam, it's time to go." The kid made a meep-meep noise and shook his head. "Ok, another minute, and then we have to go." "Nuh-uh." This repeated for over a half an hour. The dad would spend a minute or two looking at the kids' comics and then sternly tell his son it was time to go. His son would refuse, and he would go back to looking at other comics. Eventually, the dad turned to me and said, "Hey could you turn off the TV for me?" And I wanted to say "Could you learn how to be a parent, you gigantic pussy of douche?" but I didn't, I paused the DVD, and the kid shook his head, and very politely asked me to turn it back on. I was getting ready to say "I have to turn it off now so that you can leave." When the dad said "I guess we'll just have to stay to the end, then, eh tiger?" Tiger? Really? Why not just buy him something to reward his not listening to you. "I'm going to get you this nice Bone comic, too, okay." Without looking away form the TV (which I still had not unpaused), he said "I want two Bone books." "Ok." And I unpaused the DVD, because this kid was clearly Damien or something much more powerful. There is clearly something wrong with this part of Boston. Zuzu has a prospective tenant to her apartment who has been living in Brookline for the last twenty years. She calls herself Penny Wisdom Snidely. None of those are her actual names, it's just what she likes to call herself. She must have been so jealous to find out that Jethro Q. Bonwackit Bozitstabon Boot Walrus Titty had already been taken. Penny-Wisdom is a self-called Spiritualist Writer For Children (I've googled her, didn't find any of her work anywhere). In a conversation with Zuzu, she informed Zuzu that the Jews (the religion she embraced a couple of months ago) were called The Chosen People, not because God chose them to be in a covenant with Him, but because someone has to take on all the world's suffering, and they're so good at it. I don't see her being very popular with other Jews, other spiritualists, children, writers, or really anyone, except possibly people with silly names. What do you think, Morris Stegosaurus? She probably has a large group of friends here in Brookline, though. I'm too congested to ponder this any further. Luckily, one of the nice Brookline people that I've been kvetching about heard me cough, and gave me a couple of Airborne placebo pills to help me feel better. Wednesdays are the busiest days of the week for me. Thursdays through Tuesdays, I tend to work alone in the various comic book stores throughout Boston & the suburbs. I sell comics, recommend titles, check my e-mail, and obsessively clean and rearrange the stores. But Wednesdays are New Release days, as well as being the night I wait tables at the poetry venue in town. So I get up three hours earlier than usual, arrive at the stores around nineish, schlepp comics until around 7, hop on a bus, and then wait tables from 7:30 until midnight.
Most of these Wednesdays are busy, but not especially noteworthy. Last Wednesday was different. Let's forget, for the moment, that there were policemen dressed in riot gear, brandishing semi-automatic weapons across the street from our store (the Israeli Foreign Minister, Tzipi Livni, was speaking at Harvard). We won't dwell on the two hour line to get free burritos at the new burrito place that opened up down the street. We will neglect to even let the corner of our eyes rest on the image of semi-automatic armed guards cutting their way through the free burrito line to get their eat on. I ignored all of this. I was hungry. And I don't like burritos. So, during one of the few calm moments in the store, I ran out the front door, skipped down the concrete steps (not even catching the attention of the policemen or the burritoers), and entered the nearby Dunkin Donuts. On Wednesday, their flatbread sandwiches are ninety-nine cents. They're filling and taste as delicious as something that costs less than a buck usually tastes. I gave the lady behind the counter my change, and walked over to the pickup line. Behind me, another type of pickup was taking place. A not very attractive thirty something year old guy, the kind you see and immediately think he was a quiet sort of guy...none of his neighbors suspected he had that many bodies hidden in the basement, was leaning forward and making googley eyes at a field-hockey-attractive girl in her early to mid-twenties. They were clearly on a first date. In Dunkin Donuts. "How liberal are you?" was the first thing I heard him ask. I have no idea what led up to this tantalizing question. "I'm, uh, pretty open minded I guess. Why?" She did not sound very open minded. "I have guns." Silence. "Lots of guns." More silence. "And the things is, ok, so, a few months ago, one of my guns went missing. And I got a call last week that it turned up in San Francisco. Someone used it to kill a cop." Somewhere a cricket whistled at a tumbleweed that floated out of a doppler effected truck. "So, I've got to go San Francisco to pick up my gun." Silence. "I'm not a suspect or anything." "Oh." She said. "Well, that's good." "I mean, I only got into guns because of my ex-girlfriend, which reminds me, do you do anal?" I lost it. Surely this was some sort of Improv scene for my benefit. No one else seemed to appreciate the pure hilarity taking place in the home of the Coolatta. I was laughing so hard, I didn't hear her reply. When I stopped convulsing, they were both quiet. But not as uncomfortably quiet as they had been. They seemed to just be enjoying their coffee and munchkins. She looked out the window, probably imagining running screaming through the glass to somewhere, anywhere more sane and comfortable. While he stared off into space, imagining tossing the glazed munchkins into the air, and shooting them with the same gun he used to kill that cop in San Francisco. All while doing this girl in the ass. I like to think one of the officers in line for coffee overheard their conversation, placed his quarters on the counter and asked to see Mr. Cop Killer's ID, all the while clutching his semi-automatic burrito in his hands, dreaming of his impending promotion. Fuck the stars. Not the pretty ones on TV, but the big gaseous ones in space. The ones who turn hippies into Fortune Cookies. The ones who, long after their implosion kills off several planets' worth of life, still interfere with Earthers.
While I'm not a firm believer in astrology, I do believe that a bunch of people in the world went spaceshit crazy at approximately the same time as the horoscope said they would. Mercury. Retrograde. Motherfucker. My first hint that The Universe had gone awry came one night at the Cantab. The bar was so crowded downstairs, that i had to go up the back steps, through the upstairs, and down the front steps to get orders from the front of the room. Granted, there's no food being served since the kitchen closed in November, and no one has given a consistent reason why. Still, it involved a lot of walking. During one trip, the doorman, a huge but friendly (particularly if you own a vagina) cowboy, was talking with one of our off-duty bartenders. "Hey, Safey, I don't believe you've met Shitlicker (not his given name, but it's what people call him). Safey works Wednesday nights during the poetry. Shitlicker works---" "Fuck him." Shitlicker said. "Listen, asshole. I don't care who the fuck you are, where the fuck you work. I fucken hate you. I'm going to kick your fucken ass." This is not a response either I, or the doorman, were expecting. Usually, I'm a very patient, calm, rational, person. On this occasion, however, I chose to reply by saying "Swing. Please." Maybe because I was bigger than him. Certainly because I was more sober than him. And possibly because I was just having a crappy week. He didn't swing. He staggered away to harass some of the band members, while I went to talk to the owner, the other bartenders, and the other wait staff. I am determined to get Shitlicker fired. At my other job, slinging comics to the geek squad, I have been accosted at least once a day by a non-comic reading vagrant (a different one each time) who wanders in, asks for a job, and then launches into a tale of woe about how their kids were taken away from them, how they've just been beamed down from their home planet, or how the only way to save this country is to elect Lyndon LaDouchebag. My favorite was a guy who smelled like last millenium's urine, who staggered into the store with a copy of our help wanted flyer. We're not hiring store employees, but looking for someone to help manage our computers, which are run by a series of blind parakeets and heroin-addicted tortoises. I wish I were exaggerating when I mentioned that all of our really important documents are printed on dot matrix printers. Or that our registers are run by a dos program. "You need a computerer?" He asked, thus assuring me that our conversation would be memorable. "What programs?" "Uhh...many different programs. They're looking for someone to work with Excel, Wor---" "Never heard of it. I know everything about Winders, Line X, and Max." "Ah. Well, all of the programs we use are Windows based." He pounded his fist on the counter. "Winders? Winders sucks. No wonder you can't find anyone willing to work. Nobody uses Winders no more. Max. Max. Max. Everybody's got the Max Fever." God, I wish the tool who made those annoying Mac vs. PC commercials could have met this guy. "I don't like Winders, but I'll do it. How long before I kin werk?" "Well, I'm not the one doing the hiring." I said, smiling. I then scribbled my least favorite manager's office number on a post-it note, and passed it to Mr. Max Fever. "Here's a number you should call for more info." "Kin I use yer phone?" "Uh, no. The office is closed right now." Not true. "And I just tried to call it, and their voicemail is full. You should try calling them..." I checked to see when my least favorite manager was working next. "...tomorrow afternoon." "How bout I get behind the counter there and check out---" "No, you'd be working on office computers which run entirely different programs than this one. It wouldn't be helpful." And, by providence, the phone rang just then, and I stood between Max Fever and the register, investing myself heavily in a conversation with a recorded voice that was trying to sell the store timeshare in Mexico. I like to imagine the robot blushed a bit at some of the things I said. There a hundred things I could blame this on:
The other day, I had to go into work four hours early so that they could install a new heating system (aside: my boss told me I should bring a book with me while they work...Lord knows I wouldn't have been able to find one in the comic BOOK store), only to enter the alarm code for the wrong store. And since no one told me how to deactivate the alarm (including the rude bitch at the alarm company that I called), I couldn't turn it off for ten minutes. Oh, the alarm company made sure the police didn't come, and they didn't even call my boss, but it didn't matter, since I had to call my boss, since no one at the alarm company knew how to clear the alarm so I could enter the code. It could be that my ability to trust a guy has been severely damaged by a couple of years' worth of people telling me they missed me, but then making up or finding excuses not to spend time with me, at the last minute. It could be the amount of times I had to censor myself at work this weekend, like when my coworker said "Man, you can furnish your entire house with Hello Kitty, these days. There are Hello Kitty refrigerators, Hello Kitty beds, Hello Kitty televisions. I had to stop at The Hello Kitty backpack, otherwise my entire house would be this huge, pink space." And I was halfway through saying "Like your mom's gaping vagina." when I noticed there were three kids under ten in the store, so I ended up saying "Like your mom's gaping vacuum cleaner." Or maybe it was that a four year old kid spent the entire time in the store screaming "I want this mommy, I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant it." while his seven year old brother quietly placed his new baseball cards in his new baseball card sleeves. The scene elevated until the mom decided to throw herself on the grenade, take the little one outside and reprimand him while the older child finished gingerly placing his cards in the sleeves. The woman was not even a foot away from the door, when the seven year old looked up. He looked at me, then at my coworker, then walked deliberately to the door, and opened it to say "Mom, you're such a fucken bitch, how could you leave me alone in there." I guess I would have been okay to use the word vagina. Whatever the reason, I've been super irritable for the last three days. And some of it may be the latest guy I've broken up with. When my roommate first heard I was dating again, he asked "Is this one old enough to drive a car." To which I replied, "This one's old enough to drink. Shit, motherfucker just got out of rehab a month ago." Because I know how to pick 'em. Or, to be fair, I know how to be picked. He didn't want to meet me at work Wednesday because I work in a bar. Fine. He blew me off Thursday because he was afraid my friends and roommates might be drinking, and he didn't want to be tempted. Completely understandable. Friday, he was on his way over, but traffic was bad, so he turned around and went home (he lives about a fifteen minute drive away). Saturday, he really wanted to come after work, but he was just so tired. And today, we talked on the phone for about an hour, and made plans to go out for a late dinner, and then fuck. He called from his supposedly car to let me know that he didn't know if coming over was a good idea, as he was having a spot of indigestion. "Oh, I'm sure it's not indigestion." I said. "You're probably just queefing, you fucken pussy. Don't call me again." And I deleted his number from my phone. I find myself saying and doing these things more often. And while I feel I save these remarks for when they're justified, I'm pretty sure they lose me World's Most Understanding Friend status. But that's fine. I've been slicing off unreliable friends for the last few months, and, apart from this weekend's snarkiness, feeling better for it. But is it fair? I feel like the ridiculousness of the last couple of years has made me extremely impatient and intolerant of peoples' drama. I've moved from Little League Rules, where every player gets an at bat in every inning, to Family Feud tie-breaking round status: one strike and you're out. I'd like to be as zen as I used to be. I want to relearn how to slowcook love, instead of jamming lust in a microwave. I want a cure for my sense of immediacy, and I want it now. Wednesday is the day the new comics come in. I get to work an hour and a half before the store opens and put out all the new issues, file away all the issues that the subscribers have ordered, and skim over the comics that I think people are going to ask about.
Once the store opens, it's usually non-stop until I have to leave for my other job (waiting tables on poetry night). During the midst of a particular rush, one of my coworkers was talking with a regular, and another apparent regular was staring transfixed at a display behind the counter. "Hey, you should help him." My coworker said. "Be careful, though, he's Deaf." Careful? I spent nearly an entire semester studying Deaf Education in college, and had many Deaf friends throughout high school and college. I can't fathom why anyone would need to be careful around Deaf people. "hi - ¿help you?" I signed. "Motherfucking piece of shit. Give me a goddamned" Bark "Magic card pack." I flinched a little bit, but got the man his Magic cards, rang up the sale, and gave him his receipt. Bark "Thank you." He said. I walked over to my coworker. "When you said he was Deaf, did you mean to say he had Tourette's?" He smiled. "Oh yea. Deaf. Tourette's. I always confuse the two." I can't figure out whether he's incredibly stupid, or fucking with me. Every day is the worst day of your life, and I'm tired of hearing about it.
I remember discussing a mutual friend with JBob, and him saying "That person is like a black hole of negative energy. Every conversation sucks you into his despair." And I remember thinking That's exactly right. Neither one of us knows a damn thing about how black holes work, but I get what you were trying to say. And I started consciously avoiding Mr. Black Hole. That was over a decade ago. I perform poetry a couple of times a week. I work in a comic book store. I date men. I am surrounded by black holes. The problem with trying to smack a black hole upside its head is that it sucks your fist in, and then the rest of you. Also, black holes don't have heads. They're really a problematic metaphoric device. The thing is, back before I had confidence and trustworthy friends, I was a good listener. It was my only definable personality trait. So negative people flocked to me. Everyone had a love crisis or a family trauma, and, sure, I wouldn't be able to help solve anybody's problems, but I probably wasn't going to run away from their boring ass drama with my fingers in my ears, either. I am still a good listener. I do still care most of the time. I'm sorry your Betta has fin rot, or the girl you met bagging groceries with the snaggle tooth and the bum leg won't return your calls. It's a damn shame your father doesn't understand you. He didn't understand you yesterday. The likelihood of him understanding you tomorrow is slim. I know this. My father doesn't understand me, either, but do I corner you in a basement bar and complain about it every week while you're trying to mack on someone hot? No. It's not your problem. I'm tired of having personal epiphanies at your expense. Particularly when those epiphanies are I should be more selective about who I'm friends with. And now this whole entry is negative, so let me tell you black holes (and you non-black holes who are reading this entry) a story: Last week I was counting comic books in a different store than I'm used to (I work for a chain). A coworker who I'd never met before, but who's good friends with two of my new roommates, and I were exchanging good-natured jokes that violate every page of the sexual harassment guidelines they gave me when I was hired. At around four in the afternoon, two obviously art students walked into the store. "I'm an art student" the taller of the obviously art students said "looking for a graphic novel or collection that has many different artists in it. See I've got this class where our homework is to talk about our influences, and I really don't know that much about comic artists yet." So I suggested Flight, DC's Bizzaro collections, and other things most of you don't care about. But the girl I work with is prettier than me, and lo but hot girls who know about comics are nerd black holes, and this particular obvious art student was sucked into her awesometude. My opinion was nothing. And that's when the shorter obvious art student started hitting on me for the next three gay hours. Hitting on me enough that I noticed it, and I am notorious for my cluelessness about people flirting with me. He may have even asked if we had a line of underwear in our store featuring our employees because he wanted my face on his crotch. I'm fairly certain that means that he's into me. And has no tact. Tact is overrated. We came up with a few comic ideas that may or may not come to fruition on the web. They're dirty comics. Maybe not as dirty as Sexy Losers used to be, but pretty dirty. We made plans to meet this past Wednesday to hang out and make plans to hang out at a time I wasn't at work. He didn't show up. The world didn't end. I did not scowl, pout, mope, cry, kick things or otherwise Eeyore. Shit, I shouldn't even be telling you about the last part because it doesn't fucken matter. On Saturday he wanted my face on his underwear. That trumps him not being around on Wednesday by a lot. I haven't seen Sorain over a month. I try to only mention it as a punchline. It's not worth mentioning, otherwise, because you're not the one who has to date him. Something, for which, you should all be grateful. I'll try not to use the shitty day as fertilizer routine. I'll not talk about bows after rain or any other self-help claptrap. I'll only say that, from now on, every time you woe at me, you'd best be prepared to spend at least an equal amount of time entertaining me in such a way that I don't feel like crossing the street every time I see you in public, or sticking my dick in your mouth to shut you up. Because, let's face it, if every day is the worst day of your life, tomorrow is going to be absolutely torturous for you, but I see no reason why it should be torturous for me, as well. |
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