Bad Feelings About Poodles

It started a few summers ago (affectionately referred to as "The Summer of My Discontent") when I was going for a walk around the block.
I saw a lady taking her poodle for a stroll and had one of those Bell Jar moments when the world is revealed as a sham and you are merely caught up in its game of
waking up
pretending
and going to bed
then doing that again
For endless days.
"What is the point of having a poodle?"
That was the hinge on which the door opened for
"What is the point of being alive?"
Reality sort of became transparent that June and I felt like I was floating most of the time.
All tied to a pole and up in the air. My head full of static.
I had not felt that way in a while, with the help of distractions and medications.
But this morning it was cloudy
and I saw a lady with a tiny poodle dog.
She was squatting and picking up its poop
and I thought,
"What is the fucking point?"

i am in love

i would travel
18 + hours on a train
and pay $77.00
just to smell your basement
in Portland.

i would rent a bike
and spend a week alone
if you were busy
and that little wet city would hug me so tight
with its christmas lights, guitars, and chocolate beer.

and it's not like I'm cheating
on an opportunity or anything;
I'm not the one who rejected me.
San Francisco.
You fickle bitch.

3:10 am.

I woke up early
in order to get a head start
on accepting the day's
sad truths

20 seagulls saw it.

I was sitting there at the beach, after the rain, eating a vegetarian vietnamese sub.
I was biting off the paper in my teeth and spitting out your name into the waves.
I smiled at an old woman and the wind blew my hair all around.
She did not return my smile.
So I counted seagulls.
twenty of them.
The old woman came back and said something foreign and put
five caramels from the ukraine in my lap
and walked away.

it was about 70 degrees and i was not dressed in white.

There were some people standing outside in their driveway having a BBQ and I parked a few feet away. I averted my eyes because of the way the man was standing there with a hose, pointed out toward the street.

"Hey."

I looked over. "yeah."

He said, "Come over here."

and I said, "I do not know if that's a good idea."

and the other party people there with him said, "Yeah, cross the street!"

so I was like, "ok."

I went over and said, "Hello."

and he said "Let me spray you with this hose here."

and I said "No. I have groceries and I will also get wet."

and he whined, "C'mon. it's hot as shit."

the sun was indeed out in force.

and his friends said, "C'mon!"

and one held up a boogieboard with the ocean on it and said,

"You can pretend it is the spray of the waves."

So I said, "ok." and a girl took my groceries

and then the man sprayed me with cold water mist while his friends cheered.

Then I took my groceries, thanked them, and went to the house to make fresh basil pizza.

pretty good shirt.

i snuck down to ameoba music on my break and saw this dude working there wearing a shirt that said:

ELIOT SMITH'S

HOLIDAY BASKETBALL CAMP

with a tiger in the middle.

with his paw on a basketball.

with a santa hat on.

So I was all, "What is your shirt. Where did it come from. Why is it."

and he said, "Got it at a thrift store down the street."

Then I bought a terrible album by some local asshole named Ty Segall for fourteen fifty six. Yeah, no. Good job, Ty. Way to sing through a filter so distorted your pathetic, one minute and thirty second masterbations almost sound like passable songs when played through the din and clatter of a coffee shop.

One who did not know any better would probably invest fourteen fifty six in your album, hardly expecting to experience one of the most truly insipid, played-out, echo-fuck, power chord, mumbledrumcrumblecore bullshit albums ever excreted.

If I ever see you in public I am going to ask you for money.

true stories from across the divide.

Today I ignored a crackhead who had an important message.

It was so important that he rasped, "miss!" multiple times even though his voice was surely almost spent. He tapped on my window after I'd run to the car, locked the door, and turned to scream, "I DO NOT KNOW YOU! GET AWAY FROM MY CAR! I DO NOT KNOW YOU!" through the glass.

He held up two fingers- not a peace sign. he had two teeth. he tapped again. two fingers. I drove away as his friend waved traffic into my now open spot.

I know I missed something.

meanwhile:

my father is in the locker room at the gym and a large man approaches him, trying to include him in some joke about lawyers.

the man says, "didn't mean to offend you, buddy. If you're a law--"

and my dad yells, "FUCK that SHIT." and proceeds to towel his head dry.

and the man has not talked to him since.