I just got back from lunch, having had an older couple share my bench. The elderly are right near the top of my list of Things I Just Barely Tolerate, along with ketchup, most immigrants and Beyonce (Hey, Non-Existent Gay Following, consider yourself alienated). However, this couple was something special. They waltzed right over in their leisure suits and matching velcro K-Swiss sneakers and sat their cute little old asses down,
barely breathing a "Thank you" as I relocated my Tupperware container to accommodate them. And don't even try that watery-eyed weak-ass smile with me, grandpa. I know all your moves and they don't work on this guy.
Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.
I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?
The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.
"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.
On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.
I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.
That'll learn them.
I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.
I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"
Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.
When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?
