The Night Before

The night before the earthquake was just like any other night. I mean, of course it was. Most of us don't live in a day-to-day fear that it's going to be our last day. And that's too bad. Sure, I know what you're thinking; you're thinking: 'Come on! We couldn't live like that, always afraid, always worried!' But to that I say: 'Aren't you afraid right now? Really? You have no worries? No family members going through a rough patch? No friends down on their luck? No unexplainable headaches or hot flashes or strange pains somewhere in your body? Do you actually feel immortal and invincible?' If you, do, well: good for you; but deep down I also call bullshit on your bullshit.

If you knew that today was your last day, wouldn't you do things differently? I know you'd skip work. Maybe you'd indulge yourself with a big meal, because who cares about saturated fat, carbs or whatever else is the baddie du jour? Wouldn't you hug your loved ones and finally tell them you loved them? Sure, you'd feel a bit sappy doing it and they'd make fun of you, but deep down they'd be having one of their best days and you'd know that sometimes sappiness ain't so bad, as long as it's the truth. But even then you'd feel guilty: thinking, wondering, why did you have to wait until the very last moment to tell them? Sure, you tell yourself they knew it all along, but they'd have liked to hear it from you nonetheless.

So, it was just like any other night. I arrived home from work and fixed myself a drink. Then my wife came back with our child after having picked him up from school. Pardon me if I don't share their names with you. This is all I have left: their memories and their names. I feel this should stay private. Anyway, as usual our kid ran to his bedroom to change into his pajamas, because he couldn't tolerate not wearing them when at home, and I never minded that, because he got that from me.

I was in my pajama bottoms and some old 90s Nick Cave concert t-shirt, drinking my Black Label while catching up on my Facebook posts.

God.

To think I spent so many hours reading whatever acquaintances wanted to share with me and sharing bullshit with whoever thought I was their friends, while I could have spent it talking to my kid, playing games with him, holding my wife's hand or just do nothing but sit and live and enjoy the non-bullshit. But, what can I say? I'm a child of my time and, although I've never given in to the Twitter bullshit or the Instagram fuck'a'doodle, I was an avid Facebook user. Not anymore. I mean, if you go silent for a while, but are still getting messages and texts and what-have-you, if you finally decide to tell your cyber friends what really happened, I have a feeling that seeing that little thumbs up icon light up time and time again would suck up what little faith in humanity I have left.

So, where was I? Yes. Facebooking, posting funny pics, liking pics of my hot half-naked female friends taken in places I'd never go, giggling, smiling, pretty much convincing myself that my life was just as it was supposed to be.

Meanwhile, my wife, the love of my life, the person I'd decided to spend my life with, the person to whom I had promised that I'd be a different kind of husband, well... she was cooking, without complaining. Here I was: my fat blobby ass in the comfy chair, typing with the hand that wasn't holding my booze and meanwhile she was in the kitchen, after a busier day than I'd had, cooking for me and our kid. How's that for equality? What freaks me out is how quickly I got used to it and totally took it for granted. What pisses me off is that I could have turned off my fucking laptop and walked the ten feet to our kitchen and kept her company, chatting and helping. But, no. Mr Important Guy had to share the ironic picture of a kitten.

The thing that makes me even sadder is that, had there not been that earthquake, I wouldn't be writing any of this and I'd still be doing what I just said I shouldn't have been doing. There's nothing like death to make you think about life. Isn't that totally fucked up?

So, after some time, I probably even thought: 'God, I'm hungry. When the fuck are we gonna eat?' But we eventually had dinner. And my wife, lemme tell you, she wasn't a 'defrost a Lean Cuisine' kinda person. She was a cook-from-scratch, 3-course-balanced-dinner kinda gal. That night we had a carrot salad for starter, then chicken with roasted potatoes and green beans and, finally, a fruit salad. It was delicious, I remember that much.

Probably because I know I'll never eat her food again.

We spoke about this and that. 'This and that' is all I can say, because I simply can't remember what we talked about. Probably about our day, about our kid's upcoming exams. Maybe about the shower that needed regrouting or that we had to buy new trash bags because the ones we had were just not good enough. Just idle bullshit talk, like everybody has, has had, and will always have.

But at this very moment, all I want is to be able to remember anything specific from that final family talk. Did one of us laugh? We weren't miserable, we'd had good times. Maybe that night was one of them. But I don't know, I just can't remember.

Then our kid and my loving wife did the dishes. Here's another irony: the devoted husband fucked off to watch the NFL, because that's what was expected of him and no one said anything because, hell: of course the man of the house deserves to watch some burly men in tight pants give one another concussions.

Our kid then went back to his room, to read, play video games, chat, download porn. Fuck if I know. As long as he was happy, so were we. My wife walked in with a big cup of camomile tea and snuggled next to me. I remember holding her in my arms, caressing her head like you automatically do when a faithful pet nuzzles up to you. I think I was happy. I think I was smiling. I like to think she was, too. But I can't be sure.

It started with a low rumble.

My first thought was that our kid was listening to some new kind of music that had an insane amount of bass. Kids will be kids. But then our knickknacks on our glass shelves started clink-clanking and our chandelier started swaying. My wife stood up, dropping her still-steaming cup of tea onto our beige carpet and I remember being annoyed at that, right before she half-screamed, half-whispered: 'Earthquake!' I was about to tell her not to panic when there was a loud crash and then: nothingness.

Now, I can see them picking up the pieces of our broken home, literally as well as figuratively. Tears streak down their faces. Other people are running around like panicked ants. There are flashing lights from fire trucks, glowing lights from gas fires, people in their slippers wandering the bumpy streets. I want to tell them all it'll be all right, they shouldn't worry so much. But, at the same time, I'm wondering where my goddamn bright shining light is. I'm not too worried, though. I can happily wait for it for as long as it takes. I'm in no hurry.

I just want to be able to look at my loved ones for as long as I can, but no matter how long it turns out to be, I know it won't be long enough.

Somehow

I've been climbing up

this mountain for a while now.

I throw pebbles and rocks

down,

hoping they'll find

whatever

is following me

and end the

presence of those fangs

trying to gnaw at me

The summit is still a long way off,

but I'm nothing if not

motivated.

I've decided I'll reach it and,

by God,

I will.

Somehow

I can hear them getting closer,

grunting and huffing.

I can imagine

them pawing at my back,

desperately

trying to catch hold of me

But I'm way ahead of them,

in every way.

I left a day earlier

and I am so much smarter,

or at least that's what

I tell myself

as I curl up into

a ball in my tent at night,

hoping to fall asleep

and find some warmth,

somehow.

My life is but a tired

metaphor,

but I carry on

and indeed do try

to keep calm,

but deep down I know

that the beasts

do not sleep at night,

the beasts

do not feel the cold

and,

one day soon,

any minute now,

they will be upon

me

and the last thing

I'll see will be the snow-capped

peak,

so close I could touch it.

But, as everything ends up being,

well,

it'll be over for good,

as I always

knew it would,

somehow.

All The Pills

All the pretty colorful pills

aligned in a row

on my coffee table,

next to my

almost-empty bottle of red.

The first is to take the edge off

this dreadful, horrible life

and the second is to make me forget

all the girls I shouldn't have met.

The third one will hopefully

take my mind off all the girls

I will never be with

while the fourth will wipe

all my debts clean.

The fifth one,

so blue and shiny,

will be for the jobs

I couldn't get

and the sixth one

will help me remember

I am better off without

most of my so-called friends.

It's already the seventh,

time to open a second bottle.

As the familiar

and comforting

sound of red

pours out into my empty glass,

I contemplate my little pals

waiting for me on the glass top.

So, yes, the seventh:

magnificent by name,

makes me a bit sad

for all the new films

and music I won't be

experiencing.

But the eight one tells me

to buck up and be a man,

because what good is

art in a life bereft of

hope?

The ninth

is to forget about

that one time I did

that thing

and the tenth

is just for me,

because now's the time,
the time or never,
for real,

to think about myself.

I take a break while I chug

some of that fine-ish red

and by the twelfth one

I am giggling

because this is such a fucking cliché.

And so the thirteenth one is because

I am a cliché

and the fourteenth one is because

I have a headache.

Number fifteen and sixteen

are just because I want to make it to twenty

and seventeen is because

I still have a headache.

Eighteen is to forget that time

I shat my pants

and nineteen is

to forget the backstabbings

and betrayals.

Nineteen was a big one for sure,

but number twenty

is the one the internet

told me would be the final

one

and so,

as I sit back and finish

my tall glass of wine,

waiting for this chapter

to draw to a close,

I hope that -for once-

I won't be let down.

Holidays in Istanbul

I’d been there for only two days when it happened.
I had decided to take some holidays and, to be original, to do something I hadn’t done before: I’d decided to not go to a real country where people have fun, but to Turkey. Furthermore, I’d decided not to go see the deserts, the mountains or the sea, but Istanbul. Go figure.
The first two days were rather uneventful. First, I dropped my luggage at the hotel after paying X million for a taxi from the airport. I am not used to dealing with the mumbo-jumbo of exchange rates and so I don’t know if paying one million for anything is outrageous or really cheap. Maths has never been my forte. In any case, I definitely paid more than just a million for the taxi. After checking-in, I immediately went out, armed with my tourist guide, and crossed the water to visit things that apparently had to be visited for some reason or another.
My first impressions were that everybody looked the same and that there were millions of clones roaming the streets. On top of that, those same streets were haunted by armies of cats and the skies blackened by ravens. And the smell was a combination of dog piss, cat piss and stinky kebabs. The glory of the Ottoman empire. How could they have ever conquered half of the world? Then again, look at the Italians and the Greeks nowadays. They don’t fare much better. Although they, at least, are in the EU.
On my second day, I again found myself on the boat, sitting on a bench, looking at the natives. From where I’m from, dark-skinned people are to be avoided unless you want your pockets picked. And so everyone looked dodgy, especially the older teenagers who were walking fast, looking down, their faces lost in their hoodies, as if running from the law or something just as shady. I had to constantly remind myself that these were natives and that a city of 15 million pickpockets was rather unlikely. Not impossible, but unlikely. To drown out the tea and simit sellers, I put my headphones on and started listening to classical music. Not sure this was the best idea: All of a sudden, I felt as if I were in a film and all the people around me looked like refugees. Especially the older women with their headscarves and sorrowful eyes, surrounded by five or six children who looked as if they belonged to the streets of Calcutta. I smiled to myself, amused by my witticism and looked out the window, at a city that might collapse at any moment, living on borrowed time.
The boat arrived where it was supposed to, or so I supposed, since it all looked the same to me, and what I was already calling ‘the off-boat diaspora’ happened: everyone rushing out of the ship as if their very lives depended on it. I felt conspicuous with my light skin and blond hair, but I also felt strangely superior, because, well: why not?
On the docks were some stands and one place actually smelled pretty good. I decided to have a bite of something local. The sign said Büfe and I’m guessing it meant ‘Food’ in Turkish (maybe from the French “bouffe” or the order “Bouffez!” or maybe it just meant 'buffet.' But it didn’t look like any buffet I’d ever seen). In any case, I pointed at something or other, paid the man and ate it. It tasted a little strange, but not altogether unpleasant. I couldn’t tell if it was sardines, lamb, or vegetables.
Walking, I passed a hairdresser and on the spur of the moment decided to get a haircut. I’ve always thought that you can judge a country by its hair salons. My friends find it strange, but there you go. I have strange friends.
I entered the place and it was of course filled with dark men. They paused sipping their teas or dragging on their cigarettes to look at me. I felt like a bad guy in a western, entering the town’s saloon. Saloon. Salon. Close enough. Ah, me and my inextinguishable wit.
I felt silly explaining why I was there. After all, I hadn’t dropped in for a game of cards, nor to see what condition my condition was in. I obviously wanted a haircut. I think one guy who was less dim than the others understood me, because he pointed at a chair, which was an old-fashioned barber chair, and that was pretty cool. I also noticed ashtrays next to every chair and that was even better. Though how you can smoke when someone messes with your hair is beyond me.
Anyway, I sat down and a half-dwarf (not meaning a guy half the size of a dwarf, but someone who was tall enough to not be called a midget but short enough to render his labeling tricky) walked to me with a small glass of lukewarm tea. The obsession these people have with tea is beyond me, but I accepted and smiled at the freak after taking a few sips of it. Then, a tall skinny guy with long hair and what looked like a tiny shoulder bag walked up to me. He put a rolled up towel on the counter in front of me, right in front of the sink and pointed at it. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Put the towel on my head? Or maybe he wanted me to check that the towel was white and spotless? So, I nodded and smiled and gave him the thumbs up. He didn’t look amused. He talked louder and turned the taps on and pointed at the towel again, as if I were a misbehaving dog. I shrugged and smiled, realizing that everyone was looking at me and I suddenly thought of Billy Hayes.
He finally reached over, grabbed my shoulders and forced me to bend down. I thought he wanted to smash my brain on the counter, but no: he just wanted me to put my chest on the towel and my head under the running water.
So I complied and he washed  my hair and I tried not to drown. For a moment, I had the vivid image of the sink filling with water and of him grabbing my hair and shoving my head under the water. But what happened was that he just grabbed my shoulders again and shoved me back in the seat. He opened his shoulder bag and I saw that it contained neatly-arranged haircutting paraphernalia. He was like a hair hit-man. The Al-Qaeda of curls. And so he started cutting and that’s only at that point that I realized he hadn’t asked me how I wanted my hair done. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell him anyway, so I just hoped for the best and guessed that at the end of the day, we’d see the end result. He seemed to be doing a good job in any case. At some point, he even lit a cigarette and kept it in the corner of his mouth as he kept on cutting, which explained the presence of the ashtrays. He was also able, somehow, to drink a tea and talk with his co-workers. I tried not to be paranoid, I tried not to imagine that they were talking about me. But it was hard to do.
Fifteen minutes later, it seemed over and he again pointed at the sink. This time I knew the drill and, like a good puppy, put my head under the tap and he rinsed my hair, which is something his peers don’t do back in the civilized world, unfortunately.
I then sat back, ready to leave, but a young guy approached me with a straight razor in his hands. I figured this was when they were going to cut my throat as if I were some sacrificial sheep. After all, such a holiday was drawing near, I’d heard. Maybe I had stumbled upon a tribe of cannibalistic Muslims. But no, he pointed at my stubble and then at his razor. I figured why not. I’d never had a barber shave, so I smiled and nodded.
As the blade ran across my throat, I reminded myself to not swallow, not breathe and not move whatsoever. I’ve never been in such a situation where I felt so defenseless. I remember hoping that they didn’t hate tourists too much and that they couldn’t read my mind. Something told me they wouldn’t appreciate my wit. Or my paranoia. Then again, even if they could  have read my mind, they still wouldn’t  have understood me since I think in English. But maybe mind readers see images, not words. Or maybe they were only pretending not to speak English. Or maybe I should have just stopped being so damn paranoid. In any case, after what seemed like an eternity, the shave was done. I smiled, stood up, and  paid. To this day I have no idea if it was expensive or not, nor if I should have tipped or not. I didn’t really care either way, I just wanted to get out of there. Even the piss-laden air sounded good at this point.
It was only when the cold air hit me that I realized how sweaty I was. Fear will do that to you. I decided to stop at my hotel for a shower and a change of clothes before going to wherever people went for fun and booze.
As I was walking there, I felt the first symptoms: mild stomach cramps.
As I entered my room, thinking I’d only be a couple of minutes, I suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over me and I barely had time to make it to the toilet before puking my snack and what felt like all the food I’d ever eaten in my entire life.
I retched, I puked, I retched some more and then puked some more. The sound and the smell of the puking made me retch and the sound of my retching made me puke. Interesting vicious circle. Soon enough, I was only throwing up bile, but the retching seemed to be getting worse.
I think I was running a fever.
I stood to take a look at my face in the mirror, but as I was doing so, I also realized that the Büfe’s snack wasn’t done with me just yet, it was the gift that kept on giving. I’d heard of Montezuma’s revenge, but what was this? Sultan Mehmet’s Revenge? Atatürk’s wrath?
I just had time to get my pants and underwear down and plop down on the toilet before my ass started to puke whatever was in my intestines. I shat so much, I wonder how it was even possible. And then the cramps started and it felt like an invisible giant was punching me in the guts while some kind of alien was tearing at my innards from the inside.
‘Surely,’ I thought after ten minutes, ‘now it will stop.’
But no: it kept going and going, like a leaky fountain oozing chunky brown water.
I did all I could to not scream in pain and surprise and I had the clear thought that maybe I was dying. This was gonna be it. I was going to die in this hotel bathroom, in Istanbul of all places. Probably because of a tainted quay-side snack, or maybe because the tea at the hairdresser’s was poisoned. Or maybe--
I passed out.
When I came to, still perched on my procelain throne, my head against the wall, it felt like the worse was over. I wiped myself and walked to the sink, not putting my pants back up, just in case. I washed my hands, rinsed my mouth and put some cold water over my face. And that’s when I started retching again.
I kneeled in front of the toilet, and I started spraying the bowl with bile again. That’s also when I realized I’d forgotten to flush, which didn’t help the nausea much.

Outside, I heard the muezzin start his prayers and I couldn’t help thinking that while the faithful ones were on their rugs facing Mecca, I was on my knees facing the bowl.
My prayers were made of bile, my God was health, my altar made of porcelain.
As I started puking again, I realized that my intestines where not done either and I felt something warm flow down my thighs and knees. At this point I was too tired to care and as my head started to spin, knowing I was about to pass out again, I had time to hope I wasn’t going to fall head first into the brown water and bile and drown.
Was I going to die there?
Or worse still: was I going to live and have to stay there for the full 10 days of my stay?
Goddamn. 10 more days of this? Really?

All went black.

Panic On The Dance Floor

“What the-? Hey! Hey! Yeah, you! Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, don’t even try to act like fucking Travis Bickle, you fuck! I mean, come on: Didn’t you see me here? Yeah, okay so you’re dancing with your girl and you’re totally making out and God bless and what have you, but come on: mind the other people, yeah? I mean, I don’t like swearing, I really don’t, but I’ve had a couple of drinks and I’ve been having a pretty bad night, so, you know: fuck off, you fucking fuck! Yeah, that’s right! Your cocky grin and your cocky cock rubbing on your girl’s cocky minge and your fucking lips locked together and pretty much fucking humping on the dance floor, bumping into people, not giving a shit. I mean, why didn’t you just stay home and fuck? Or why don’t you stay at your table and make out? Why do you need to flaunt your horniness and your pheromones all over the fucking dance floor? Take pity on the poor single fucks who envy you, you cunty fuck!
Hey! Don’t you dare fucking laugh at me, you fuck! Don’t you dare! And fucking take off that fucking beanie off of your fucking head, you fucking beanie-headed fuck! Can’t you think how to dress without watching fucking TV? Do you think this is 1994? Do you think this is fucking Portland? Are you fucking cold or something? Well, I’m sweating my tits off and from the looks of your honey, with her see-through whatchamacallit and the fact that she’s wearing no bra, she’s also got a bit of a titty-sweat situation. Furthermore... Yeah: that’s right: furthermore. Just because I’m a foreigner doesn’t mean I don’t master your language, so please: don’t be intimidated by the fact that I know a three-syllable word you’ve only used once in an essay about panopticism in your philosophy 101 undergrad bong-hitting freshman year! Anyway, my point was: so it’s hot as fuck here and we’re definitely not in Portland, and I know that because I can’t see any junky Czech whore passed out anywhere around here and if there are vegans, they well keep their opinions to themselves in this here state! And, well, I hope I don’t have to tell you: but it sure ain’t 1994. The glorious year when I graduated from high-school to start my wonderful life of fuck all.
Yeah, yeah: I know what I’m saying, I know what my point is! I’m telling you to fuck off!
Yeah, you goddamn right I’m pissed off! You look like a fucking prick and your girl is totally hot and this is just wrong, okay? What does she see in you anyway? I’m hoping she’s an escort -no offense, ma’am- because if she’s out with you on her own volition, then I guess all I gotta do is go home and hang myself with my fucking pleather belt, because then there’s no justice and everything is just wrong.
I mean, let’s face it: I’m an ugly cunt. I know that, I’ve accepted that fact. But if I’m ugly, I’m at least more or less categorized as a human. But you? Shit, I don’t know what the fuck you are! You look like a retarded monkey who passed out drunk in a Pakistani tattoo shop. And really: Tattoos? In this day and age? Really? A fucking dragon on your chest and a fucking barbed wire on your bicep? Really? And why aren’t you wearing a shirt? What the fuck is this? Goddamn nudist-heaven? Sauna-ville? Am I getting spunked? What? Huh? ‘Punk’d?’ Yeah, whatever. Same difference.
Oh, come on: really? Bouncers? Really? For me? For what? I’m standing my ground! I refuse to get bullied on the dance floor by Mr. Cliché and Miss Hot Bitch, so sue me.
Really? You escorting me out? Really? Fucking hell... Then, wait. Wait!
I just gotta do this...
Hold it! Hold it! I just completed my opening statement!”

Pride

“Hi there! This seat taken? No? Cool if I...? Great, thanks! Gotta say, feels good to get off my feet, been working since 7 this morning, so a little bit of lager down the big belly would do me some good, right?... Haha, exactly, yes. Right... So what’s your racket? What’s your line of business, as it were? Advertising? Really? Like a Mad Man kinda deal? Oh, yeah? Wow, cool. Looks pretty glamorous! Or like, like... the husband in Bewitched! Little less glamorous, but heck: he had a hot witch wife! Ha, ha.... Excuse me? No, no: I said ‘witch.’ Yeah. No: no bad words coming out of me, no siree! No, no... Hmm? Me? I’m an accountant. Crunching numbers all day, no social skills, pocket protectors, wearing glasses... The whole nine yards!... Yes, of course I’m kidding! As you can see: I’m wearing contacts now!
Ah, nothing like that first sip of cold beer at the end of the day, eh? Makes you forget all your worries! You got any? Worries, I mean... Well, good for you! That’s just great, really. I’m happy for you. Yeah.
Ah, feels good. Yeah...
Makes you forget your worries.
Yeah...
Of course some people, like you, have no worries. That’s good.
But if some people had. Worries, I mean. Then a cold beer could make them go away for a bit...
Pardon me? Me? Worries? Oh, what made you think that?
I mean... It’s not a worry. It’s a... a bit of a thorn, but no biggie. Heck: not even a thorn, really. A bramble, at most. Just... I mean... You know...
Well, my only son just told me the other day he was gay.
No, it’s no problem at all. Really. I mean, I love him to pieces, always have, always will. Can’t even say I’m totally surprised, I mean he had posters of Freddy Mercury all over his walls by the time he was seven. Then he became a big fan of any films involving gladiators, so you know: I kinda knew. I didn’t care. And I still don’t, of course. But, it’s just... Well, no, it’s nothing. I mean, I was hoping for an heir, you know? Someone to carry on my name, but... well, hell: what has my family ever done in history? I mean why should our name live on? From what I’ve heard, my great-great-grandfather once met a guy who was apparently important. I can’t even tell you who or where or when, that’s how important my family is. Yeah... Plus, anyway: with all these new laws, my son might adopt a son and give him our name. I mean, okay: so there might be a kid named ‘Johnson’ in forty years, and he’ll be totally like... Asian or African or from wherever the adopting fad will be in those days.
No, no! I’m saying, hey: good for them! Cool! Well deserved and all.
But, you know what? There’s something I’ve always wondered, and don’t get me wrong, but... Well, our society is so freaking PC these days that I’m not even sure how to say it. I mean, I’d ask my son, but he’s such a drama queen that--
No, no... Sorry, no. I didn’t mean he’s a queen because he’s gay. That was a bad choice of word, really. I mean, even when I thought he was straight, I’d call him a drama queen and he always thought that was funny. I guess I understand why now... But he knows I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, a ‘drama king’ or a ‘drama prince’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?
Anyway, so... What I wanted to say, or rather: ask, is... Well... what’s with the whole gay pride thing? I mean, okay: they’re gay and they shouldn’t be ashamed, I totally get that. But why be proud? I mean... I’ve never been proud of being straight. I mean I’ve never thought: I love to sleep with women! Woohoo! Let’s have a parade! I mean it’s just something that happened, right?
And, well... That’s kinda the flaw in their logic... No, no: ‘their’ is not a derogatory term, really. It’s just a pronoun, so let’s calm down.
What I mean is: so they’re gay, good for them. They say it’s not a choice, it’s biology or what-have-you. And I totally agree. But, see... If you don’t have a choice in the matter, how can you be proud of it? I mean... Should I be proud that I have green eyes? That I’m right handed? That I got brown hair? I don’t really give a shit, to be honest. That’s who I am and I carry on with my life.
What?...
Ah, yes, I know they’ve been persecuted and misunderstood, I totally get that. But still... Now they can say: ‘F- you, we’re gay, accept it or don’t. F- you either way you f’ing straight f-.’ And I do apologize for my language, I really do... Sorry. But you know what I mean, right?
So, you know, my son is gay. Okay. he’s happy as hell, and I’m happy for him. I’m just saying, what’s with the pride thing? Well, if you think about it, same think with ‘black pride’ or 'woman pride’ and of course also 'white pride.’ I mean... you were born this way. It’s good you’re okay with who you are, really that’s just fantastic, but ‘pride’ is just not the right word to use!
I guess the slogan ‘We’re gay and that’s okay’ doesn’t... Well, hold on: I think that sounds pretty damn good, no?
Yeah, I don’t know either.
Anyway, let’s have another drink. On me. Yeah, yeah, I insist!
And if that’s okay, I’ll tell you why my son’s boyfriend is a total jerk.”

Benched

Hey, there! Mind if I sit down? You’re sure? Thanks...
I see you’re enjoying the afternoon, getting a bit of cool bench action, here, hitting the rays, watching the peeps and so on... Ha, ha. Don’t worry, I’m not a weirdo. Well... I guess that’s what all weirdos say, but really: I’m not one. Scout’s honor. Yeah... Ha ha. Lovely day, isn’t it? Yeah. Yeah... I see you got a ring on your finger, there. Married, then? Oh, yeah? Lovely, lovely. Good for you. Marriage is one great thing. Awesome wholesomeness and what have you... Me? No, no. Not married, no. No, no, no, no. No. Ha ha. No. Nope, no no. No. Definitely not, no...
Not that I’d mind, of course. But no. Haven’t found the right lady yet. Who’s single and got thumbs? This guy! Yeah... I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had many girlfriends, but... I don’t know... They were all sort of... Well... totally fucking crazy. I’ve gotten into the habit of calling myself a ‘self-labeled pride-less psycho magnet.’ Haha. Yeah, no: no pride, not anymore. I mean... At some point you gotta realize that pride is pretty goddamn pointless. What do I have to be proud about? I’m an overweight, late-thirties loser with no accomplishment whatsoever. Shit, I’m a waste of space, really. I’m sucking up the oxygen from the worthy people, you know? I mean, no, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m scum or that I’m totally repulsive, but hey: I’m no spring chicken, and I’m no looker either. I know, I know, supposedly looks don’t matter. But that’s complete bullshit and you know it and I know it and they fucking know it. Yes: ‘they.’ The women... Man oh man...
Can I tell you something? Something pretty personal. Something I haven’t told anyone, ever, but... Well... Beautiful women make me sad. They really do. I mean there they are walking about, living their lives and I see them and I fall in love instantly and I think: ‘Wow, it would be amazing to kiss her lips. It would be amazing to caress those legs. It would be amazing to fall asleep next to this woman every night.’ And of course,  I mean we’re men, here: ‘Wow, I’d love to fuck her brains out.’ But of course that never happens. Because they’re a different breed, a different race, a difference species all together! They glide by, knowing men and woman alike want them and they know they’re at the top of the proverbial food chain and unless you’re some toned asshole, or some rich asshole, or just some asshole, you’ll never find out what color their panties are. And that’s totally fucked. I mean, for example... There’s this bar I go to sometimes and there’s this really cute waitress there. I don’t wanna say gorgeous or beautiful, but just super cute, she just looks... well... tight. I don’t mean her poon, you know, I mean her body. You know? She’s... she’s petite and fit, right? I know, I kinda sound like a Google’s search result of '1001 perversions,’ but you know what I mean, yeah? Anyway, I say hello when I go there and she says hello and I always want to talk to her but I never do. You know why?... That’s right, you said it: 'cos she’s a fucking waitress! I mean a guy chatting up some waitress, her freak radar goes ape-shit, her defensive walls go up and at best she politely smiles at you. At worst, she calls the bouncer and his biker friends and you end up in the hospital with broken legs and your dick shoved so far up your ass they gotta perform a tonsillectomy to get it out. You know what I mean. Anyway, it’s fucked. How many creeps chat up this waitress every night? My estimate is a baker’s dozen. At least. And anyway, a woman like that has to have a boyfriend, you know? I mean a girl like that can’t be single and-- what’s that?... Yeah, okay, sure: she could have a girlfriend. Point is: she’s taken, unavailable. Plus, you know what? I lied... I said she wasn’t gorgeous or beautiful. That’s a total lie I tell myself so I’ll fall asleep without weeping. She’s pretty damn stunning. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Were she a blind single desperate nympho, I’d still find a way to fuck it up. Yeah, it’s fun to be me...
Excuse me? Oh, no, no. Surprisingly, no. My girlfriends have always been super hot. Or least above average. On average.  At least that’s my opinion, which at the end of the end is the only one I care about, you know? But I’ve always felt the girls I was with were out of my league, but they seemed to like me enough. But you know... As soon as a girl likes me, I figure she’s full of shit because I know there’s no way a girl like that would like a guy like me. So I don’t trust her. Yeah, no, really: it’s fun to be me.
Shit, talking about that waitress and that bar made me thirsty. Want a drink? No, I know there are no bars around here, but I always carry a fifth of bourbon in this here pocket. And one of rum in that pocket, here. Yeah, well... My father used to say: 'There are 'the glass-is-half-full kinda people and there 'the glass-is-half-empty’ kinda people but that doesn’t matter because trouble only starts when the bottle is half empty.’ Ha! So, yeah. Bourbon for me. Want rum? no? You sure? You can have the bourb’ I’ll go for the Jamaican fire water if you want. No? You sure? Suit yourself. Don’t mind me...
Oh, yes: That hit the spot! Anyway, what was I saying?... I don’t know either!
Huh?... Oh, yeah: some of my girlfriends were hot. Yeah. Weird. I was with this one girl, really great body, amazing in bed and all... And God she loved me. I mean it was scary how much she loved me and how quickly she decided that she did. But she did. And she showed it... Every time she came over, she brought me a little gift and she cooked for me and when she was looking at me, I could see love in her eyes like I’d never seen it before. Or since. I mean, it was absolute devotion. But at the end of the day that wasn’t enough for me. I mean... the love and devotion, she was like a cooking puppy that I fucked. It’s cool, but just not enough, you know? Yeah...
So I broke up with her and she wept. I mean literally. I had never seen anyone weep before. It was weird. And lemme tell you something else: that got me hard. I almost proposed a good- bye fuck, but I kinda had the feeling that would not be the right thing to say at that particular point in time. But I’m sure I coulda gone away with it, somehow.
Funny thing is: she still calls me and wants to see him. I was a dick to her and she still likes me. So, yeah... Being an asshole always work. That’s fucked up. I’ve written poems for girls, I’ve wined and dined them, I was gentle and affectionate... And I got dumped. Because I was too kind or too gentle.
Fuck... Seriously... I’m gonna turn into a raping cannibal and then I’ll get all the poon I want!
Haha, no, no: don’t get nervous, I’m only kidding. I couldn’t rape anyone, I don’t have the stamina. I even had a girlfriend who asked me to pretend I was raping her and I couldn’t do it, so you know: I’m cool, don’t worry.
Shit, bourbon on a summer afternoon is nice. You’re a cool dude, man, I’m glad I ran into you. I’m sorry I’ve been rambling a bit, but you know how it is... Yeah? You gotta go, really? back to work? Well... Shit... Good luck, man. You sure you can’t stay a bit longer? No, no, I understand, you gotta go. Work calls! Yeah, you take care, too, buddy. Bye! No, no, don’t worry about me, I’ll be here with my drinks and my thoughts, perfectly happy to be on my own.
Yup.
All on my own.