Being Petty

I wish there was a superhero made from recyclable material that could clean up all these petty little shits I can’t seem to take out from my act. Some name like Plastic Bag Man 5.

We’re working the Saga Backwards, eventually we’ll go all the way back to when he was Paper Bag Man, but now as Paper is limited and not truly sustainable he’s just made from recycled poop bags of all different colors. This will help as the shit is collecting onto itself like clay. And across his chest is some mishmash of fairway or Shoprite from bags that found their way in the mix – perhaps a social project that pulled them out of trees.

Some people say that a gemini moon makes for a petty person. Yea. I have one of those. But, don’t blame it on the moon. I take full responsibility and now I will begin my unravelling:

(This was written some time ago- I don’t live in US anymore so of course I am insured)

So, I don’t have insurance anymore.

That’s why I’m here. Not a joke. I’ll take whatever you got really…anything.

You got it. I’ll take it. I don’t have a syllabus but I have a lesson, that I can’t seem to learn. So I brought it here for you. We all have one. Don’t act like you’ve got it all figured out.


“I’m vegan”


“My beer is only 40 calories”


“I started this cleanse.”


 

Don’t even bother clapping. My problems do not need encouragement.

So this lesson, it has to do with my mouth. I know that much. What goes in and what comes out? Other people’s feelings are definitely included in this lesson.

But it’s other people’s feelings about my feelings. It’s kind of where the two meet. The overlap of a Venn diagram. In the end, I always end it – with, “I don’t give a fuck,” but that’s reductive. It’s also misunderstood.

It DOES NOT mean, I don’t give a fuck about you. See that’s your problem. Projectionist. Gas-lighter. I need to clarify: Not giving a fuck is very different from not giving a shit. 

People who don’t give a shit have no sense of themselves. They’ve no courtesy, kindness, respect, nothing. They just don’t give a shit.


They are: People who don’t look at the paper when they’re done wiping their ass. Game over people.


On the other hand, Not-Giving-a-Fuck peeps are living their best life.


 

Not giving a shit is that troll standing in the doorway of the woman’s bathroom looking in, like there’s anything in there for him. Or, that bitch standing at the entrance of the train car with her back facing the platform. You have to get on, but you can’t even look at her to tell her to back up. She hasn’t moved to the side or turned her body. She’s ruining everything – everyday – an doing it behind her own back. That     – ALL OF THAT –               is, “I don’t give a shyyyyyttt”

The Don’t-Give-A-Fuck, Live-My-Best-Life-People pushes that bitch, hard. They don’t give a fuck about how stupid you are or I am, and it’s all of us, we’re all fucking dumb. Nope, nope, nope. They don’t give a fuck. Leading by example is their only option. In that moment, they push humans forward. They’re sufferers. Suffering for our sins.

Jesus-like – but without the grace. But when you’re a champion of humanity you don’t need grace. The situation does not call for grace. And I gotta big problem people.

Apparently, I’m that guy.

Not only is it exhausting but it turns out, no one likes me.

I gotta be fucking moron to continue. And I do.

Dentists’ Blow

I recently started seeing a new dentist. He’s from Iraq and while middle eastern men have never been the first on my list of men to date, this man had stuck a chord in me.

He was always wearing a three piece suit under his white coat. he had beautiful skin and this fine head of hair. I can still remember how perfectly plump and red his lips were, as if they were outlined by a darker shade of red just to emphasize the perfect v in his lip lines.

He was sweet and smiled as he talked with me.

He always asked me how I was doing.. I was actually catching feelings for him..

We had only just begun our professional relationship so I didn’t have any inhibitions – one that a normal person would have because I’m not normal, but beyond that (what I mean is that) we hadn’t been carrying on years with a repressed attraction behind multiple visits that would make mentioning the attraction, “shocking or uncomfortable.”

I only had two visits and I was ready to ask him out. Especially, because my first visit wasn’t even really with him, it was the tech that cleaned my teeth. I got all the info from her too.. That’s how I know where he’s from and that he was single and even his age.

I just had to ask him out. But, what could he want to do with me, I doubted myself. Riddled with insecurity, I told myself that I was just a patient to him and my efforts despite their strength would amount to nothing. Unless, I thought out of the box. Unless I was shocking – maybe that is exactly what this situation called for.

I can’t just ask him to dinner?  He’s already put his hands in my mouth and I loved it. I figured it out. On my next appointment while I’m waiting for him to return to my room, I’ll just take my clothes off , knowing that it will be just the two of us. But one of my molars, that had already had a crown on it, needed to be extracted. This was great news! We were going to have to have a discussion, just he and I. He began.

“We’re going to have to remove it. It’s not salvageable, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

I would shrug as if I was upset. Put my hand on his and say,

“I understand. if you’re going to take something out though — you may want to put something else in….. What’s fair is fair.”

 

Don’t get sore.

You know that friend that you just can’t keep up with, like you want to hear about their sex life because it’s great.

But also you’re just not sure you should share a drink or cigarette with them, like ever.

You unwittingly check their mouth for signs of a sore, the lingering of a sore, or redness of any kind. And then you try to change the way you drink or pull from the joint – as if you can somehow tighten your lips enough to keep the bad bacteria out. 

 

#scorpios #rollingeyesatmyself

I’m back.

{INTRO: A lot of you don’t know that I spent a lot of time sweating from my palms and feet performing stand up – a la open mics and well, I do love it..BUT I’m not really cut out for the lifestyle that comes with trying to get good at performing comedy. I like to be asleep by ten.. and sets wouldn’t start until that time, and furthermore when I got home I stayed awake thinking of ways to modify existing jokes or better yet turning the light on to write new jokes in scribbles that are only half-legible the next day. I have a good amount of material and before throwing these folded up papers and mini moleskins…I gotta put them out there }

and I’m riper than a strawberry? What does that mean? It means that there’s a small window of opportunity that you may enjoy me. It’s around springtime and I am one of the most tantalizing fruits there are: My shape. My color. My aroma. My taste. It’s all there, and for you to take a bite out, and you do. And, when you do there’s a chance that I, may leave my seed with you, a piece of me with enough power to create more of me, perhaps in a place you can’t see and don’t notice for sometime, but it’s a chance you are willing to take – most of the time, anyway.

Would you ever ask a strawberry where she comes from? The answer is the ground. Yea many grounds in many places, but the land is always the answer. I don’t know about hydroponic strawberries and that’s not the point here. So why then….is the number one question I get asked, beyond all others?

“Where are you from?” That’s it. That’s my number one inquiry.

In my case, they have already counted on and bet their imaginary dollars on what my answer will be.

They are usually wrong.

Like 99.6% wrong. Indians want me to be form India, Pakistani’s from Pakistan, Bangladeshi from Bang… You get it.

And so, I have decided to cut the whole charade by responding, “Not your country.”

“Oh because…” they will inevitably say back.

“No. Not your country.” I will reiterate

“But you look like….”

That is how the exchange always ends. “You look like…”

I look like what exactly? Someone you could feel good about harassing… Well, I’m not.

The other day someone walked by me and turned around and proceeded to yell, “INDIAN WOMAN!” as they turned their back and walked away.

Point is, does this happen to anyone else?