Month: June 2011

Rejection

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

Rejection

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

go to fucking sleep

Bri and I talked and while we did so I looked out the window at the sky, save for brief moment of computer-aided research. I could smell a storm coming. Later, after errands, I smoked old tobacco. M reminded me of the Turkish stuff in a tin. It smells good in there. It smells like an old shop full of wood and age. I read some from a pile resting on the bedroom window sill and eventually heard the purring of the soft stuff, the pussy rain. But the storm was still coming, and I thought I’d enjoy it. I mixed in some weed to make the sound of the rain quench the thirst I can never get rid of. I thought, as I blew the smoke down through the thick strands of my moustache, that I should like to die by walking into the desert. The old Comanches, those not killed in combat, died in this manner. But before they did this, they lived lives. They became hunters and warriors, fathers and husbands, caretakers of themselves and their people. They had people, and it is still a common practice, the people, but not for all. The lone wolf mantra is sometimes so ridiculous that it makes me choke on the smoke. The plastic chair I sat in became drenched during the three hour thunderstorm. My head was lolling, and I decided to go back inside before I toppled over. The curiously message-shy caller from Kentucky continued to ring me. The book I intended to finish remained on the carpet, and the video game I intended to play is still shrink wrapped. In the city, surrounded, this seems like a waste. Out in the desert, in the long and lonely wastes, it is life.

I hear the rain again. It says, go to fucking sleep.

go to fucking sleep

Bri and I talked and while we did so I looked out the window at the sky, save for brief moment of computer-aided research. I could smell a storm coming. Later, after errands, I smoked old tobacco. M reminded me of the Turkish stuff in a tin. It smells good in there. It smells like an old shop full of wood and age. I read some from a pile resting on the bedroom window sill and eventually heard the purring of the soft stuff, the pussy rain. But the storm was still coming, and I thought I’d enjoy it. I mixed in some weed to make the sound of the rain quench the thirst I can never get rid of. I thought, as I blew the smoke down through the thick strands of my moustache, that I should like to die by walking into the desert. The old Comanches, those not killed in combat, died in this manner. But before they did this, they lived lives. They became hunters and warriors, fathers and husbands, caretakers of themselves and their people. They had people, and it is still a common practice, the people, but not for all. The lone wolf mantra is sometimes so ridiculous that it makes me choke on the smoke. The plastic chair I sat in became drenched during the three hour thunderstorm. My head was lolling, and I decided to go back inside before I toppled over. The curiously message-shy caller from Kentucky continued to ring me. The book I intended to finish remained on the carpet, and the video game I intended to play is still shrink wrapped. In the city, surrounded, this seems like a waste. Out in the desert, in the long and lonely wastes, it is life.

I hear the rain again. It says, go to fucking sleep.

go to fucking sleep

Bri and I talked and while we did so I looked out the window at the sky, save for brief moment of computer-aided research. I could smell a storm coming. Later, after errands, I smoked old tobacco. M reminded me of the Turkish stuff in a tin. It smells good in there. It smells like an old shop full of wood and age. I read some from a pile resting on the bedroom window sill and eventually heard the purring of the soft stuff, the pussy rain. But the storm was still coming, and I thought I’d enjoy it. I mixed in some weed to make the sound of the rain quench the thirst I can never get rid of. I thought, as I blew the smoke down through the thick strands of my moustache, that I should like to die by walking into the desert. The old Comanches, those not killed in combat, died in this manner. But before they did this, they lived lives. They became hunters and warriors, fathers and husbands, caretakers of themselves and their people. They had people, and it is still a common practice, the people, but not for all. The lone wolf mantra is sometimes so ridiculous that it makes me choke on the smoke. The plastic chair I sat in became drenched during the three hour thunderstorm. My head was lolling, and I decided to go back inside before I toppled over. The curiously message-shy caller from Kentucky continued to ring me. The book I intended to finish remained on the carpet, and the video game I intended to play is still shrink wrapped. In the city, surrounded, this seems like a waste. Out in the desert, in the long and lonely wastes, it is life.

I hear the rain again. It says, go to fucking sleep.

go to fucking sleep

Bri and I talked and while we did so I looked out the window at the sky, save for brief moment of computer-aided research. I could smell a storm coming. Later, after errands, I smoked old tobacco. M reminded me of the Turkish stuff in a tin. It smells good in there. It smells like an old shop full of wood and age. I read some from a pile resting on the bedroom window sill and eventually heard the purring of the soft stuff, the pussy rain. But the storm was still coming, and I thought I’d enjoy it. I mixed in some weed to make the sound of the rain quench the thirst I can never get rid of. I thought, as I blew the smoke down through the thick strands of my moustache, that I should like to die by walking into the desert. The old Comanches, those not killed in combat, died in this manner. But before they did this, they lived lives. They became hunters and warriors, fathers and husbands, caretakers of themselves and their people. They had people, and it is still a common practice, the people, but not for all. The lone wolf mantra is sometimes so ridiculous that it makes me choke on the smoke. The plastic chair I sat in became drenched during the three hour thunderstorm. My head was lolling, and I decided to go back inside before I toppled over. The curiously message-shy caller from Kentucky continued to ring me. The book I intended to finish remained on the carpet, and the video game I intended to play is still shrink wrapped. In the city, surrounded, this seems like a waste. Out in the desert, in the long and lonely wastes, it is life.

I hear the rain again. It says, go to fucking sleep.

Rejection

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

Rejection

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

too long a week

It’s been too long a week to end it by getting drunk. And it’s saying something, I think, when an evening out must consist of boozing in public and raucous company or it’s not an evening out. Priorities get fucked so easily. A shack with a view must exist.

I skipped a decade somewhere. Forty-eight is the new thirty-eight, and twenty-eight gets strung along behind.

You know?

too long a week

It’s been too long a week to end it by getting drunk. And it’s saying something, I think, when an evening out must consist of boozing in public and raucous company or it’s not an evening out. Priorities get fucked so easily. A shack with a view must exist.

I skipped a decade somewhere. Forty-eight is the new thirty-eight, and twenty-eight gets strung along behind.

You know?