Bukowski thought women were durable creatures who abstain from beer as it’s “bad for the figure.”
I’d better choose the seat facing out, I think, instead of hiding. Observe the white people.
The flock of shuffling girls all dolled up and traveling together, how fun, wonder if the fatter ones hate themselves compared to their friends, wonder how much envy is the meat of their relationship, then I lose interest, can’t care.
But those fucking red Starbucks cups.
I’m told not to tear other women down, it’s not right. We’ve got to build each other up. That’s probably true but it seems unfair to only tear down folks with dick. They were born idiots and there was never any hope. Women had hope once but chucked it out, cashed it in for red Starbucks cups and studded bags and Sorel boots to go grocery shopping in. I hate them all equally. I am no better, and so I hate myself.
I guess now I’ve reached an “attractive” stage of my life. It might be the way I look but I think more likely it’s the stench of my apathy. The men sense that I’d watch them crushed under the wheels of a Greyhound bus on the road to nowhere and would maybe smoke half a cigarette to calm the nerves hoping for a reasonably short delay, and they like that. I like that too. It’s sexy.
It happens a lot lately. People stare and stare. Men hold eye contact and my mother always notices. I give a light smile, I don’t necessarily mind the staring, though I should. I just want to do the same thing back. Brush my breast and I’ll honk your sack. Fuck mutual respect. We’re all dying anyway. So you undress me with your eyes and that means this “space” isn’t “safe”? I’ve got you nailed to a pole with a broom up your ass and a blindfold on. Your mouth is mine. There was never such a thing as safe space.