I began wearing flip-flops a few days ago. I couldn't tell you why. I don't know. But I kinda like 'em. Comfort and breathability. I figure it's either this or have a strange woman hack at the bottom of my feet with a cheese grater. I prefer the former. I really do.
A few months ago, after paying a visit to my mom's house, I stopped by the neighborhood Albertson's (site of The Dude's infamous "I fuckin' hate kids" proclamation four years ago) to pick up some oranges. I was on line with about a pound and a half of clean, uncut, 100% pure citrus delectability in tow when I raised my gaze from the tiled floor and noticed that the creature in the white loafers ahead of me was, in fact, a dame that I had privately been keen on throughout my high school days. Man, had time been good to her; although I was (and still am) firmly opposed to consuming animal flesh, I'd have taken a burger to go with that shake. I briefly considered giving her the obligatory "Hey! How you been?" spiel (in the hopes that she'd turn it back on me so I'd be able to impress her by showing how much I've changed since high school), but I felt that the clothing I was wearing at the time was incongruent with the vegan/animal rights/social activist/self-deprecating coffee-house intellectual angle that I would've tried to work, so I put the kibosh on that.
"Oh boy," I thought. "That sure looks like a lot of alcohol for a Monday night."
It was true; this girl, to whom I had once dedicated an intentionally ugly-worded, no-flow-to-be-found piece of poetry (if you could call it that), had just hoisted what appeared to be a two-gallon jug of wine onto the checkout turntable. I slightly grimaced and silently cursed the society that would sell a person such an exorbitant amount of rotgut and meanwhile ceiling the heavenly taste of orange juice in a carton half its size. But I digress. It was possible that she didn't see me as she shuffled down to face the cashier, but I somehow find it more likely that she was pretending not to notice me, as her posture subtly grew more hurried and tense (while not exactly staring, I'll admit to giving her body a discernible amount of my attention) as the lady in the blue apron rang up her booze. The cashier tried to goad her into making small talk, and she appeased her while simultaneously letting her know that she wasn't having it (The extent of their conversation: "Ugh, one more hour until I'm out of here." "Oh...yeah?") Cash exchanged hands, and she grabbed her ponderously large jug o' wine and hustled that ass out of there. In hindsight, I had never figured this bird to be of the disposition that would avoid acknowledging a one-time classmate, although the tension and urgency I picked up from her swagger could have just as easily been attributed to a long day of selling away her labour/soul (which would have probably explained the wine). Regardless, her form has been swimmin' around in and out of ol' Bandit's noggin on a semi-regular basis ever since.
I only bring it up because this particular filly and I were in the same creative writing class at the end of senior year, although our rapport then was about the same as it would be in Albertson's five years later. Anyway, our teacher was badass enough to compile the class' writing into a scrapbook of sorts for us to take as mementos of what was, indeed, a rather festive and cathartic way to end one's high school career. I recently dug out said scrapbook in an attempt to match the handwriting of one of the assignments this curvaceous canary had written in her own name to that of her "admit slips," which had been written under a pseudonym, and see if I could perhaps satisfy my male curiosity by getting a better glimpse of her personality. In doing so, I also came across a bunch of stuff I had written, a great deal of which was somewhat macabre. The exercise "When I Looked Into the Mirror That Stormy Night" was particularly disturbing. I continued to go through and read my contributions and found myself in a state of utter repulsion. Was I really this gloomy back then? Was it in any way necessary? Holy jumpin' fuckin' shitballs. I seriously don't recall ever feeling as shitty as I portrayed myself in those admit slips. Who could blame the cupcake for making such a hasty retreat in the supermarket? Shit, she was probably worried that I was gonna rip out her jugular with my teeth or something. It was then that it occurred to me that it'd be interesting to re-visit some of the exercises we did in class and see how they'd compare to the ones I wrote five years ago. Then I said to myself, fuck it. After I'm through with those, there's probably a slew of writing exercises available on the Internet for me to occupy myself with. That sounds like it'd be pretty fun.
So that's the point of this here post. I'm announcing my intentions to do that. That's all.
Peace.
A few months ago, after paying a visit to my mom's house, I stopped by the neighborhood Albertson's (site of The Dude's infamous "I fuckin' hate kids" proclamation four years ago) to pick up some oranges. I was on line with about a pound and a half of clean, uncut, 100% pure citrus delectability in tow when I raised my gaze from the tiled floor and noticed that the creature in the white loafers ahead of me was, in fact, a dame that I had privately been keen on throughout my high school days. Man, had time been good to her; although I was (and still am) firmly opposed to consuming animal flesh, I'd have taken a burger to go with that shake. I briefly considered giving her the obligatory "Hey! How you been?" spiel (in the hopes that she'd turn it back on me so I'd be able to impress her by showing how much I've changed since high school), but I felt that the clothing I was wearing at the time was incongruent with the vegan/animal rights/social activist/self-deprecating coffee-house intellectual angle that I would've tried to work, so I put the kibosh on that.
"Oh boy," I thought. "That sure looks like a lot of alcohol for a Monday night."
It was true; this girl, to whom I had once dedicated an intentionally ugly-worded, no-flow-to-be-found piece of poetry (if you could call it that), had just hoisted what appeared to be a two-gallon jug of wine onto the checkout turntable. I slightly grimaced and silently cursed the society that would sell a person such an exorbitant amount of rotgut and meanwhile ceiling the heavenly taste of orange juice in a carton half its size. But I digress. It was possible that she didn't see me as she shuffled down to face the cashier, but I somehow find it more likely that she was pretending not to notice me, as her posture subtly grew more hurried and tense (while not exactly staring, I'll admit to giving her body a discernible amount of my attention) as the lady in the blue apron rang up her booze. The cashier tried to goad her into making small talk, and she appeased her while simultaneously letting her know that she wasn't having it (The extent of their conversation: "Ugh, one more hour until I'm out of here." "Oh...yeah?") Cash exchanged hands, and she grabbed her ponderously large jug o' wine and hustled that ass out of there. In hindsight, I had never figured this bird to be of the disposition that would avoid acknowledging a one-time classmate, although the tension and urgency I picked up from her swagger could have just as easily been attributed to a long day of selling away her labour/soul (which would have probably explained the wine). Regardless, her form has been swimmin' around in and out of ol' Bandit's noggin on a semi-regular basis ever since.
I only bring it up because this particular filly and I were in the same creative writing class at the end of senior year, although our rapport then was about the same as it would be in Albertson's five years later. Anyway, our teacher was badass enough to compile the class' writing into a scrapbook of sorts for us to take as mementos of what was, indeed, a rather festive and cathartic way to end one's high school career. I recently dug out said scrapbook in an attempt to match the handwriting of one of the assignments this curvaceous canary had written in her own name to that of her "admit slips," which had been written under a pseudonym, and see if I could perhaps satisfy my male curiosity by getting a better glimpse of her personality. In doing so, I also came across a bunch of stuff I had written, a great deal of which was somewhat macabre. The exercise "When I Looked Into the Mirror That Stormy Night" was particularly disturbing. I continued to go through and read my contributions and found myself in a state of utter repulsion. Was I really this gloomy back then? Was it in any way necessary? Holy jumpin' fuckin' shitballs. I seriously don't recall ever feeling as shitty as I portrayed myself in those admit slips. Who could blame the cupcake for making such a hasty retreat in the supermarket? Shit, she was probably worried that I was gonna rip out her jugular with my teeth or something. It was then that it occurred to me that it'd be interesting to re-visit some of the exercises we did in class and see how they'd compare to the ones I wrote five years ago. Then I said to myself, fuck it. After I'm through with those, there's probably a slew of writing exercises available on the Internet for me to occupy myself with. That sounds like it'd be pretty fun.
So that's the point of this here post. I'm announcing my intentions to do that. That's all.
Peace.
