This is a total cop out post. As much as I revel in the power of my pain medication, I have to admit that it’s shit on the creative process. I actually un-medicated myself yesterday, hoping to get some writing done, but it backfired—the pain was too intense for me to concentrate on writing, so the only thing I did that could be considered remotely creative was my stringing together of all kinds of curse words.
Anyway, here are some things that have been on my mind lately:
I recently got an email from my sister titled, “Never, never!” It went like this:
“My boys can NEVER get e-mail accounts. I was just clearing out my bulk mail and had one entitled ‘Kathy's hulky fuckstick.’ Holy crap!”
Because I’m all kinds of helpful, I emailed her back, explaining the situation:
“I think that's a blog about trees. Kathy has pictures of different branches and stuff. Very educational. VERY.”
“You're just HILARIOUS,” She wrote. “Now I don't feel so bad about the previous e-mail I sent, which Mom forwarded me. Share the pain, baby, share the pain.”
My mother has recently started dating, and none of her children are taking it too well. My siblings and I are unsentimental and pragmatic, and we don’t have much room in our lives for things like over-the-top romance or the goofy smiles and stories that accompany something like that. My mother is kind of the exact opposite of this: she gushes on and on about her new man, she giggles like a schoolgirl, they hold hands in public—shit like that. The gross part about love.
Don’t get me wrong—I know I sometimes carry on about my princess. But imagine if in every post, I wrote about how cute she was when she did something, or if, after any comments, I wrote, “Oh, that’s just like my princess! She says…” Frankly, people in love are annoying. I used to think that they were only annoying to the people who weren’t in love. Nope.
The thing is, I’m not a big fan of public displays of affection. You know how homophobes talk about gay people? “I don’t have a problem with them, I just think they should do that kind of thing behind closed doors.” That’s how I feel about all people. You want to kiss, you go right on ahead—but do it in your house, where I don’t have to look. You want to mug down in public, you should be considerate and just fuck. That way, I can at least be entertained, get a story out of it, or both.
Unless you’re my mother—no screwing in public if you’re my mother. Which means none of the other stuff, either. Anyway, back on track. Although I’m sure my mom will totally appreciate me telling you all about her love life, I was actually just trying to explain my sister’s reply. Because my mom isn’t allowed to tell us about this aspect of her life, we encourage her to email her siblings. Somehow she ended up sending a reply to my sister instead of my aunt, and because my sister’s a ruthless, hateful human being, she forwarded it to me.
It’s nothing dirty, it’s just all that sappy romance crap that you absolutely do not want to hear from your mother. Especially if you’re the kind of person who gags about that kind of thing even if it’s not your mom saying it.
Which I am.
I responded thusly: “What you need to understand is that the environment in which a hulky fuckstick can grow is a very fragile one. Lighting plays a part, as well as the creatures and ideas around the tree. Put simply, by sending that email, you may have damaged my hulky fuckstick forever.”
She didn’t seemed too upset by the news.
I’m in McDonalds the other day, and there’s this couple beside me at the soda fountain. The lady is trying to get water, but she somehow keeps getting Coke. Her husband comes over, and they’re both puzzling over this machine with all of the very specific labels on it.
I grew up in a small town, okay? There were three traffic lights. When the grocery store finally got doors that slid open automatically, it made it into the newspaper. To get to the nearest McDonalds, you had to drive 45 miles.
My point is, I’m not usually inclined to make fun of people for being bewildered by big city contraptions like self-checkout counters or the credit card readers where you have to slide the card yourself. But if you’re so far behind the advances of society that you can’t work a soda fountain at McDonalds, you might need to take some steps to get caught up with the rest of us. I saw a clip on Youtube the other day where a monkey used one to get himself a drink, you know? A monkey. I try not to ever underestimate the intelligence of monkeys (not after that last time, where a monkey beat me at cards and won my house, my car, and my pinky finger), but come on.
I was talking to Trey the other night. I generally pace when I talk on the phone. When I’m talking to Trey, this isn’t always an option. Sometimes it’s because it’s late at night, and hobbling around my apartment with my gimpy leg makes enough noise to wake up the entire building. Sometimes, it’s because of the extraordinary amounts of liquor imbibed, and I don’t particularly enjoy falling down.
Because I still have the urge to do something, I’ll generally mess around on my computer. I can’t do anything that requires much brain power, because A) I’m usually busy killing brain cells, and B) Trey actually talks about some pretty complex shit at times, and unless I’m paying quite a bit of attention, I get confused. So I’ll do something like check site statistics or check the weather.
Last night, we were talking about food, which made me wonder if I could find a particular brand of beef jerky. I can’t ever remember the name, so I just typed in what I did remember: “steak in a bag.” I was scrolling through the results, not paying too much attention, when something caught my attention:
Yes, boys and girls, if you Google the phrase “steak in a bag,” you will end up finding a link to The Strangelands. How cool is that? But check out the first line in the screenshot. “Joshua’s Bone Marrow Transplant.”
What the hell? I’m not completely familiar with all of the scientific jargon in the medical field, but should the term “steak in a bag” ever come up? Does that seem right?
That got me to looking, and what I saw disturbed me. There’s the bone marrow thing, followed by a recipe, followed by an Amazon item, followed by a possible hate crime incident, followed by a link to a Portly Boy story.
Search engines are the true yardstick of society, I think, and judging by the results, we’re all goin’ down.