“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “The truth is we never get over anything. The first person to break your heart? Not over it. The last person to break your heart? Nope. The time someone’s cruel words really cut you? Nu-uh. My father leaving when I was 10? No way. Watching your mother die? Never.”
One of my freelance clients is a Trumpist bodybuilder. He spent 30 minutes talking to me about all of his bodybuilding outfits and trophies and pictures and stuff and “would I like to see some sometime?” I said no, thank you, but I charged him $50 for the meeting he dominated with Speedo talk.
Judge me if you must, but skills like programming and writing will have zero value in a world filled with marauders who trade in Charmin and rubbing alcohol. And gauging by the type of clothing the Mr. packed in our wildfire go-bags, I’m pretty sure he plans to sell me.
It’s 2008. The iPhone is a thing now. On the BART train to and from San Francisco, more and more people stare down into card decks made of glass and plastic, tapping on and swiping through tunes, or flicking things into other things to score points. Everyone who has one of these new toys takes a picture of everything. My coworker is doing an entire series on his shoes. No one ever asks if you’re cool with being a backdrop, so I get my picture taken more often than I prefer. Luckily, my friend Will taught me how to look like a deranged criminal in every one of them.
There’s a Buddhist tale about a woman, some mice, some tigers, and a strawberry. It’s been dissected down to nonsense and rewritten in the echo chamber blogosphere to rub our backs the right way. The way I hear it in my head is inspired by a poem now lost to two million hits.
At some point during my 3rd grade, my Mother adopted a stray gray tabby and immediately took to calling it “ThatF/ckingCat.” I do not remember if my first pet had a traditional Christian name. Nor do I remember its gender. I do remember deep and painful scratches on my arms and legs, and the gnarled…