he was at once somehow equally handsome and perverse, with a bit of a hunch from habitually lowering his height to interact with those around him. a life full of forced bowing as if bound to some socially obligatory servitude.
yet this servitude to others, it touches us all — forms a grid, a matrix to which we attach ourselves and from those fixed points create an extended reality. we have shaped it upon the play ground which was provided by mother nature. she threw down the backdrop and now is watching the scene unfold. the grand comedy. cheers Ma.
this net above us is held in place by our own hands and those of our neighbors. in public we expect things of people, and we reaffirm these expectations by accepting that things should be expected of us in the first place as a natural reality. we reinforce that reality by engaging actively in it regardless of our stance(i.e. being “anti-capitalist” but continuing to purchase new items)
peer pressure is the weight of the collective stare of a given population as it turns and questions everything about you in an instant. it is heavy. it is painful. It is a weight that serves to keep us in our places by allowing us to force manipulated behaviors onto others: with narrowed eyes we say, “because you are different, i doubt you.” that type of prohibitive garbage.
who knows. cosmic crap. remember to keep in close contact with friends and not be an asshole.
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.