That line, by the way, is from George Clinton. Not the film composer; the guru of funk.
Start time: 2:14 pm
I haven’t been writing here much lately. Laziness is a factor. So is the idea that whenever I write it should matter. Why should what I write matter to anyone except me? Let’s not answer that…now. Now I am about to write whatever comes out of me, good or bad. I have done this before and will link to that post at the end of this post but not at the end of this post. You will find the link to that particular post at the beginning of the previous sentence. You know, where I say ‘I have done this before.’ Damn….am not stretching enough here. So let’s see what’s on my mind. Click. Search. Good.
You know how when you’re by yourself and you drift off into another world unknown to you based on your perception of reality based on what others have told you to be real? That world is not what I mean. I mean a world where everything you’ve dreamed of came true and you’re still bored and in turn don’t find that world any more exciting than a piece of fruit that’s supposed to be good for you yet tastes like piss in a cup of coffee from the local deli – just a few feet away from the busy Starbucks. Rewind to 5 minutes before you bought that cup of piss coffee. There you were walking along the pavement, feeling sorry for yourself because life doesn’t mean much to you that morning and you’ve run fresh out of people, places and politics to blame. That cup of Venti coffee would really turns things around. You’d take a sip and it would perk you up, make you walk faster than usual, make you walk faster than the usual fast walk you’ve learned from years of living in a neighborhood where more dogs than humans roam – sometimes dressing better than you would care to. That faster than average walk would have changed your mind about the world and the way you should fit in it. Maybe you would have wanted to return to the same Starbucks, whip out your trusty notebook and worked on your project a little more because caffeine has done something else to you this time; it’s inspired you.
But there’s a problem. You don’t own a fucking laptop. You ask yourself why. Oh yes, cuz losers don’t get to buy laptops because losers would have a job. No you can’t admit to wanting a job. That would be so uncool. Instead you say, “I’d like a steady source of income.” Yeah, that opens up a few things for you when you have that chat with a lady you’d like to impress or a lad, if that’s your thing…or if you’re a girl- the same.
You have to decide. Should you walk in Starbucks? Pay attention now. You haven’t walked into Starbucks yet and ordered that venti coffee. You’d imagined yourself doing it first. If you imagine it, you will buy it. Or lose weight. Let’s make a decision. You peek inside. Old people, young people, funny looking people, kids, whores, bitches (not same as whores) are all inside staring at their laptops, some smiling, some frowning, and some with faces that are tight and shiny. You hate yourself for not measuring up to a bitch you hate. Or a type of bitch you hate. How does that bitch afford to have a laptop? Who’s she fucking? Who’s fucking her? Maybe she bought it with her own money. How the fuck does she have money? Getting too complicated. Let’s stick to her fucking someone to make money to have her own laptop. But wait…maybe her parents bought her a laptop. Possible. Maybe they’re paying for her college too? Maybe she is a good student. Perhaps a great one. Scored 25000 in her SATs and another million in her GREs. Possible. But look at her. She looks like a stuck up bitch who’d fuck anyone except you. Careful, don’t want to get into the ‘nice guys finish last’ shit. Cuz you’re the nice guy. Hah…fuck Starbucks. Who needs them? I’ll come back when I have my own Macbook Pro. Coffee existed before Starbucks. I’m sure that deli makes some fine coffee too.
Five minutes later, ie present. You take your first sip. The piss is in your mouth now. You have two options: swallow the first round and take a second hoping your tongue will refuse to co-operate and you’ll lose sense of taste and the coffee won’t taste that bad after all. Or you can chuck it and head to Starbucks. Eh…tough one.
Five minutes and $2 later. You’re sitting at Starbucks about to take your first sip. You value your money and you can’t afford to pay for a cup of coffee that might end up being a tastier piss. You’re willing to take a chance, though. That dollar bill, 3 quarters and smaller change amounted to this cup you’re holding and expecting miracle to happen. You look up…and around. Every one is in their own world. Their own universe where they drive the perfect car, fuck the perfect model, sleep in the perfect bed, have the perfect job and die a perfect death. Perhaps what they’re doing at that exact moment is leading to all that they’re dreaming of. You hate them anyway. You look to your left. The bitch is laughing it up with a guy who looks like he just rolled over from his bed and ended up on the table. You wonder why he ever bought a Mach3 razor if shaving is an annual event for him. Your bitch over there finds him charming, although you would think twice before you’d declare him an asshole. These days you’re not designating that title to people you dislike. Not asshole – then what? Douchebag will do this time. The bitch leans over and kisses him. Come to think of it, she is quite the looker. Perhaps that’s why you wanted to brand her a bitch. You, the bitch, just can’t be that pretty and not be a bitch. It’s not your fault, you’re accustomed to being one. You can safely blame your mom for making you one. I hate bitches, you say. Or I say. I seem to be flip flopping between first and second person commentary here. Is this what I’m doing? Commentary? Don’t think so. Commentary is supposed to be smart with lots of big words like ‘reciprocate’ or… ‘cunnilingus.’ I guess I’m not doing a commentary after all. I’d fuck her if she let me, you say to yourself. A smile curls up on your lips. Like a slide show gone wild you envision all the positions you’d fuck her in and all the little cute things you’d do together after you fuck her. Will she make a sandwich for you? That would be nice. She’s nice. I shouldn’t call people I can’t fuck a bitch. That’s not nice. The world’s a nice place to live in if it doesn’t fuck with you and if you get to fuck the right people. Fucking makes the world go round…around….round….?
30 seconds later. You’ve already given her a name. Her name’s Melinda. Melinda’s a nice name. Fuckable and sweet. Aww…you’re good with names that fit a face, aren’t you? You should name professionally…whatever that means. So Melinda and you are doing very well. She lets you treat her like shit. She likes that. She likes it even more if you ridicule her in public. It turns her on. It turns you on. You’re da man. Yes you are. You can do anything you want in this world. The same world that goes around because of fucking. I think Jim Morrison said that once. Maybe he didn’t but someone who made that up thought he might say something like that.
10 seconds later. A giggle snaps you back from your ‘trysts’ with Melinda. It’s Melinda. She’s rubbing half-beard’s thighs – just as a bitch would do at Starbucks! Man, fuck her. You never liked her anyway. She is only pretty on the outside. I bet she likes it up the ass too. Well, that wouldn’t be so bad, but she would never let a man she likes do that to her. If she liked you that much in your day dream the is it possible that…nah. It’s time to take the sip from your cup. You’ve let it cool off enough. Sip.
The world is shit if it can’t buy a guy counting pennies a good cup of coffee. You shouldn’t have wasted that money on Starbucks. You did buy coffee beans, filter, sugar, half-n-half yesterday from the local Gristedes. They stayed open till 11 pm and you like it that they ‘get’ your schedule. That you may want to buy stuff at 10:45 pm and still have a place to go. You should have stayed home and saved the money.
But you didn’t. You wasted another day, another chance to better yourself. You are a loser. Maybe not a loser. You should be like me. Write a blog post that borders madness in the name of creative cleansing. Much better for your feet and taste buds.
Cunnilingus. There…this post is officially my commentary.
End time 3:16 pm
p.s. Holy shit! That shouldn’t have taken an hour.