I have no idea what day valentine’s is, I rarely pay attention to somewhat more meaningful holidays, I truly can’t be bothered to remember the minutiae of one invented in an effort to sell more kipple.
That said, I have a girlfriend, so I cannot entirely escape heart shaped bollocks and rose scented bullshit for the weekend. There will be flowers and candy and something else to which I won’t allude on the off chance Mary reads this before I’ve given said allusory item to her.
There are a few black-hearted saving graces. Despite her affinity for pink, Mary isn’t simple, not wrapped up so tightly in consumerism as to be blinded to the madness of it all. She likes things, but she isn’t a puppet of advertisers. Additionally, some of my visceral rejection of convention has worn off on her, so we’re seeing Deadpool tonight rather than something saccharine. Tomorrow, we’re going to a burlesque show where, if tradition holds true, m.c. Donny Vomit will drive a condom wrapped screwdriver into his skull as part of a mid-show bit. Sunday, Mary’s off to her parents and I’m going to reintroduce my rather atrophied musculature to the joys of picking things up and then putting them back down. I suppose that last bit’s only funny if you imagine it said in a bad Austrian accent. And you’re over the age of thirty. And you watched SNL twenty years ago. Actually, it’s so unlikely that it would be funny that I think it best you forget it happened. Better not to spoil one good joke with a legacy of shitty comedy thereafter.
So, I come to a coffee shop to write, to affect normalcy in allowing an overabundance of caffeine to compensate for a scraping lack of endocrine performance, and all I can think to write is “what I did today, what I’m doing tomorrow” non-matter. This is the price of a prolonged escape from writing. There’s always that sticky rust film to grind off the cogs before the machine begins to turn usefully. It’s best to never stop. Once stopped it’s best to start again immediately.
I’m surrounded by literal and figurative children. Girls. They’re the worst, the pitch and timbre of their voices claw their way around and past my headphones as deftly as an octopus opening a bottle to eat the fish inside. I can feel their auditory tentacles scrapping at my brain pan.
There’re lurkers and gagglers, gossips and tskers. Given my distaste for humanity, one must wonder why I go out if all I’m going to do while there is complain. I suppose the answer is that even I can only spend so many days in a row as a hermit. Plus, look how many words I’ve written. I can practically smell the rust coming loose at my finger tips.
That ruddy smell that makes you hungry and sick at the same time, but always speaks of action.