this is when haircuts happen. there is something cathartic about scissors.
I have reached the point where I've decided that politeness isn't worth the effort, and that I will never be a good writer because I know nothing of love. As a thing that tethers, maybe. I know the ribbons of human connection, all guilt and shame and joy and yearning and desire and duty, that wrap around a person's ankles and bind her to the world when she'd rather float away. There is no passion in me. Not really.
It's nice, though. It's like being an old lady. I can just say fuck off when I feel like it and I don't care whether it's inappropriate or offensive. Or graceless. I'm in the public bathroom and this girl tries to open the door on me, so I push it shut and explain that the locks don't work well, she should check under the doors for feet to see if the stalls are occupied. I speak maybe a little curtly, but calmly. And she says, God! All I did was try to open the door! What is with you? I didn't, like, kill your mother or something!
So I say, Fuck off! Why are you such an asshole? and I actually kind of do want to know. But she just leaves.
...I promise, I sincerely do promise, that I will post a completely optimistic and non-grouchy, non-depressed, non-self-pitying post at some point later this week. It'll probably be a good move for me, too. I can remind myself that I like an awful lot of things, even if they are mainly small things. And I will not talk about politics, ever. The thing about politics, and society in general, and human nature too, probably, is that even in the best mood on Earth it is impossible to talk about them in a way that's both optimistic and honest. That's why I avoid doing it. But we can all get excited about banana slugs and the smell of woodsmoke and bright orange foliage. Right?
It's nice, though. It's like being an old lady. I can just say fuck off when I feel like it and I don't care whether it's inappropriate or offensive. Or graceless. I'm in the public bathroom and this girl tries to open the door on me, so I push it shut and explain that the locks don't work well, she should check under the doors for feet to see if the stalls are occupied. I speak maybe a little curtly, but calmly. And she says, God! All I did was try to open the door! What is with you? I didn't, like, kill your mother or something!
So I say, Fuck off! Why are you such an asshole? and I actually kind of do want to know. But she just leaves.
...I promise, I sincerely do promise, that I will post a completely optimistic and non-grouchy, non-depressed, non-self-pitying post at some point later this week. It'll probably be a good move for me, too. I can remind myself that I like an awful lot of things, even if they are mainly small things. And I will not talk about politics, ever. The thing about politics, and society in general, and human nature too, probably, is that even in the best mood on Earth it is impossible to talk about them in a way that's both optimistic and honest. That's why I avoid doing it. But we can all get excited about banana slugs and the smell of woodsmoke and bright orange foliage. Right?