my v-card. [trigger #216]

Simon sat, listening to the other conversations around the bar. It was one of his favorite pastimes. He tuned in and out, looking for the perfect conversation to listen to while he sipped his mediocre well whiskey. 

Finally, he struck pay dirt. The guy next to him was talking to a stranger who’d just walked up to the bar, and somehow the conversation was already about sex. Simon wasn’t sure how this had happened, as he hadn’t listened to the beginning of the interchange, but his ears tuned in immediately when the newcomer to the bar said, “I still have my V-Card.” 

“Wait, what?” the man beside Simon asked. 

“My V-Card, I still have it.” 

“Wow. Any particular reason why?” 

“I just haven’t met the right girl yet. It’s nothing religious or anything like that.”

“Well, to each his own I guess. I, for one, try to make as many notches in my bedpost as possible.” 

“Yeah, I just try to only make deep notches, the ones that really mean something.” 

Simon sipped his well whiskey to hide the fact that he was trying not to laugh. The stranger at the bar, V-Card, had really just said that… with a straight face… and not like the ‘really good at dry humor’ straight face… like, an earnest straight face.

Simon gently shook his head. Apparently, everyone has a different barometer for cheesiness. 

underdog. [trigger #215]

He slouched at the counter, his dark brown hair carefully styled to look unkempt but still flattering. It was clear to everyone who came through the door that the last thing he was interested in was helping customers.

There was a strange contrast between his bright red Underdog t-shirt and the Sandman comic he was reading, as if in his shirt he was attempting to seem playful, when in reality his reading choice showed a much darker and more brooding nature. Cartoon t-shirt or no, his facial expression would have eliminated ‘playful’ from any list a stranger made to describe him. Perhaps the t-shirt was ironic, or maybe it was an attempt at wishful thinking, and some part of him desperately wanted to be easygoing and childlike.

 

He was using the store’s sound system to play Fugazi at deafening volume. This would seem to most as an odd choice in a home goods store, but it was carefully crafted to make sure that as little conversation as possible took place, what with how difficult it was to have even the most basic interaction and be heard.

Since his mother owned the store, and he was there against his will every Saturday, it was highly likely that these attempts to get fired were only going to increase in intensity.   

black and white thinking. [trigger #214]

Sera’s therapist would often point out her black and white thinking. She would point out that this wasn’t a surprising habit, what with Sera’s mother being borderline, and her father being a narcissist. It was a likely defense mechanism for Sera to learn. 

Sera would never deny her black and white tendencies, but what she found darkly amusing was the fact that her therapist didn’t seem to account for the fact that just about everyone seemed prone to black and white thinking. Sera could count on one hand the people in her life who didn’t think entirely in absolutes. As Sera saw it, most of us seem to do that, because black and white is more comfortable than gray. Unless it is more convenient to believe the contrary, we tend to pretend that something is either all good or all bad, all right or all wrong. We like our villains to have horns and our heroes to have halos. Our way of life is right, and the other guy’s is foolish. We don’t let people be complex and complicated, we put them in little boxes in our minds, easily categorized and understood. The mysterious unknowability of life is too terrifying and unwieldy.

As defense mechanisms go, black and white thinking was the McDonald’s or the Coke, second place was only dimly visible in the rearview mirror. 

Sera never made this observation aloud to her therapist though, she would just nod solemnly, furrowing her brow to seem interested and engaged, while her mind was actually wildly speculating the likelihood that her therapist was actually comfortable in the spaces between certainty, in the gaps where real life and growth actually happened. 

you’re missing the point. [trigger #213]

“You’re missing the point!” she said. “It isn’t about the fact you couldn’t pick me up at Mark’s. That’s just another example that hammers home the point that I can’t actually count on you for anything. Ever!” 

Her tears were the sort that stemmed from anger and exhaustion at having the same old argument over and over. 

I wanted to argue that it wasn’t true. Normally, that’s what I would have done. Reflexively, I would have defended myself, my feelings for her, my trustworthiness. But, after this week, I just couldn’t do it. I had nothing left in me.

The space created by my exhaustion gave me the moment I needed to see that she was right, right about everything. She couldn’t count on me, and what’s more, I didn’t want her to. I was tired of feeling like a failure, tired of never living up to her expectations. I just never let myself think about that because her expectations have always been so reasonable. She isn’t high-maintenance, she isn’t overly demanding. All she asks for would be deemed fair by any reasonable person. I just don’t want to give it. I’m not sure whether I don’t want to give it to her, or don’t want to be in that sort of relationship with anyone at all. I do know for sure, after that moment of terrifying clarity, that all that’s left is putting this dog to sleep. Just as soon as I find the courage to share this realization out loud. 

my personal hell. [trigger #212]

I used to imagine all sorts of elaborate things when picturing my own personal hell. My friends and I like to play games, especially when drinking, where we ask each other questions like: ‘What superpower would you have?’ or ‘If you could go on a date with any celebrity, who would it be and where would you go on the date?’ or ‘If you had to live in the world of any book, which would you choose?’

One that comes up once every year or so is ‘If hell is personalized, what would yours be?’ I have always been really good at this one. I used to either imagine things that fit my personality so perfectly that it made everyone laugh, like, ‘Being forced to watch an eternity of WNBA games’ or ‘Being trapped in a room of perpetually warm and gooey brownies but having no tongue.’ Or, I would imagine things so horrible it made everyone squirm, I’ll spare you the details on those because we haven’t been drinking. 

These days, I don’t need any more elaborate scenarios. My answer to the personal hell question is always the same now. Spending even a few minutes in the same room as Joseph. Even a few seconds is enough.

He is the worst. The. Worst. He is the least self-aware person I have ever met. He will go on and on about himself in great detail and for copious amounts of time, then he will bitch and complain about other people he thinks are too self-obsessed. He will talk about how much he likes music all the time, attempting to tell you about all sorts of bands he thinks no one else has heard of (bands that everyone has, in fact, heard of). Heaven forbid someone else brings up a band though, he will without fail go on a rant about how terrible any band someone else mentions liking is. Forget the fact that this would be obnoxious just because he is shitting all over something someone else just moments earlier said they liked, but when it is happening with such perfect consistency, it tips over from obnoxious into intolerable. He is oblivious to everyone around him, he is incapable of picking up on social cues or relational feedback of any kind. He is the worst.

He gives me a ‘go to’ answer every time I am asked about my own personal hell. He also gives me an answer whenever I am asked who I would pick if I had to kill one person. So, there’s that I guess. 

hotter than a whore’s crotch in here. [trigger #211]

“God, turn on the air conditioning. It’s hotter than a whore’s crotch in here.”

Jennifer’s grandfather was always saying stuff like this. She stifled her laughter as her grandmother looked scandalized. “Richard!” 

At least her grandmother was trying to look scandalized, but Jennifer could also see the trace of a smile on the old woman’s face. If anyone else said this, she was sure Nana would have lowered them with one of the withering glares she was famous for. Jennifer still had no idea how her Poppy could get away with it. She had no idea how her grandparents fit together, and she wouldn’t believe it possible if she didn’t see it for herself day after day. It was like her grandfather did everything he could to embarrass, provoke, and annoy his wife, and she seemed to enjoy every minute of it. Even when she pretended not to enjoy his mischief, she wasn’t very convincing. 

It was just more confirmation to Jennifer that she had no idea how relationships worked, but she was a mature enough 16 that she was quickly realizing that no one did. Her grandparents wordlessly taught her that the people you love have a way of slipping through the cracks in your rules and convictions, and her grandparents also showed her that this was a beautiful thing. 

 

 

paisley shorts. [trigger #210]

Jared was wearing paisley shorts because he’d lost a bet, but as was often the case, he owned it in a way that made it work. In no way did the shorts feel like the humiliation that normally resulted form bets of this sort.

It was impossible to truly get the upper hand with Jared, which was frustrating to the few people who didn’t like him and wanted to see him fail. Of course, when he did fail, it was never satisfying for his enemies, because nothing ever seemed to bother him, or at least not his own shortcomings. That being the case, even his weakness made him seem that much stronger and more invulnerable, as if his failures and mistakes were just context to display how cool and likable he was.

Thus, his paisley shorts didn’t have the effect they were meant to have. He didn’t look poorly dressed, he didn’t come off as a bro or a douche-bag, it was like he could wear just about anything, and it would just be incorporated into his inherent ‘Jaredness,’ and all would be right.   

and the oscar goes to… [trigger #209]

And the Oscar for Best Performance by a Leading Man Asked to Pretend His New Wife Didn’t Buy Him The Absolute Worst Christmas Presents of All Time goes to… ME!

She must have just gone through some sale racks at the last minute and grabbed anything that looked interesting, or else she just makes wild leaps of logic in order to convince herself a gift is appropriate. It’s truly horrifying.

I mentioned once that I liked Patrick Swayze in that SNL sketch with Chris Farley, which somehow resulted in her buying me the rebooted version of Red Dawn. How did an offhand comment about an SNL sketch result in the purchase of a movie that is a terrible update of a Patrick Swayze movie from the 80’s?

She knows I love the Green Bay Packers, so I opened one of my presents to find an XXL t-shirt with Brett Favre on it. The disgraceful end of Brett Favre’s career aside, I’m 5’5″ and weigh around 134 pounds. XXL? This woman has seen me naked for Christ’s sake.

Worst of all, she knows my favorite Hip Hop artist is Kanye West… well, somehow… this is hard to say… somehow this resulted in her getting me the collected works of Sean “Puffy” Combs, aka Puff Daddy, aka P. Diddy, aka Diddy, aka no talent ass-clown. For a Hip Hop head like me, even casual acquaintances know that Diddy is the equivalent of the anti-Christ. Especially because he is some-crazy-how the richest man in Hip Hop. All because he discovered Biggie. Seriously, what else has he done in music? Created weak Sting samples… given us Mase and lil’ Kim… paved the way for the musical atrocities of will.i.am samples? Thanks a lot you horrible son of a bitch! Sorry, got myself going there. But these strong feelings just makes it clear how terrible it was to give me his complete catalogue! 

I thought she knew me better than this. I mean, what the hell? I am genuinely worried she had a stroke or something.

the definition of insanity. [trigger #208]

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. They, whoever they are, are wrong. If you ask me, the real definition of insanity is spending your whole life working a 9-5 job in an office of any kind. How people who do that sort of thing don’t kill themselves is beyond me.

I’ve tried it. Twice. And by twice I mean I got an office job and went for two days. It was soul sucking. It was spirit crushing. Halfway through day two and I was ready to live on the street begging for change if it only meant I never had to sit in a cubicle and watch the clock tick by.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to call my bluff, so these days I actually do live on the street and beg for change, but I know my luck is going to turn soon. I have a niche out there, I just haven’t found it yet. In the meantime, at least I’m my own boss, right?

i love lounging in my jet pack. [trigger #207]

**After a few necessary days off with work stuff, I’m back in action! Leeeeeeeeroooooy Jeeeeennkiiiiiiiiinnsss!**

I still don’t know how it happened. One night I went to sleep, and then I woke up 237 years later in 2250’s version of a hospital room. No one seemed surprised either, so they know something, they just won’t give me any answers. 

While I wish I knew the how and why of it all, I’m not complaining about living in the year 2250. I love it here. I love the nanotechnology that makes it possible to do things my smartphone could never aspire to with just my own eyes and ears. I love the fact that the high blood pressure and cholesterol I went to sleep with are entirely curable here. And I can afford it since there is free health care and housing subsidies here in what used to be the western United States when nation-states still existed, but is now a corporate territory of the Google-Amazon Group. Fortunately, while I was sleeping Google developed some pretty impressive examples of the next generation of deterrent weapons, which is good since our south-eastern neighbor in the Southern Union of Halliburton tend to get a little aggressive every few years, but they are mostly broke and their weapons are all old enough that they are easily handled by our defense matrix. They mostly launch silly, antiquated attacks, with nukes and chem-bombs. Nothing to worry about. It is the equivalent of a three-year old’s temper tantrum. It can be annoying, but you are never particularly worried for your own safety.  

I especially love lounging in my jet pack, watching the massive city  of Cascadia, which sprawls beneath me from what used to be Vancouver, British Columbia to what used to be Eugene, Oregon. Well, it’s actually only a jet pack in the vernacular I grew up with. It isn’t actually a pack, and it has nothing to do with jet technology. It’s actually more like a magnetic hover jacket. Still, I can fly, and that’s pretty amazing for a guy born in 1974.