my parents are in mexico. ryankitten is in iowa. my wife is in iowa with admiral jeff goldblum. silverback and stormfellow are in someone else's house, sleeping on someone else's bed, pottying in someone else's yard. it is just me and kelli and the big house and a few beers left in the fridge. here is how i know that i have been working as a barista too long: the customers assume that i am the owner of the cafe. they ask if i am the ex-wife. i am not the ex-wife. i am twenty and three years old and i am just trying to keep my piggy bank from going hungry. i am just trying not to lose my wits. i feel very alive in an i-could-die-at-any-moment-for-absolutely-no-reason way because i have spent my day reading bukowski and eating things made from chocolate. why does bukowski keep writing the same story. why does he keep writing it. why do i keep reading it. i feel like he must be sitting at a bar somewhere raising his glass to mankind for being habitual and crass perverts because if we weren't, his glass would be empty and he'd get bored.
i grabbed at everyone's face last weekend. kittens are afraid of that but roses are not afraid of anything.
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| kitten #1 |
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| kitten #2 |
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rose [several hours later] i am finished with bukowski. Pulp: a pulp fiction version of his usual - old man gets drunk repeatedly, loses his money on bad bets, looks up women's skirts, picks a few fights, sizes up the whole world and decides that it is full of idiots and whores, the end. i decided that i will continue to read bukowski forever because i like that a dirty old man casts himself as a hero in an unjust and meaningless world. i also like that his idea of a hero is extremely offensive. i also like that his dirty old man heroes occasionally interrupt their drinking, fucking, fighting, and betting to say something lucid and profound. there's just something about it. |
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