It came to my attention today, that writing (and reading), has become a very important part of my life. My current job requires a lot of driving. A lot of radio-less driving. It’s one of the best jobs that I’ve ever had, just so that it doesn’t sound like a complaint. You know the complaint: “Fuck, man, I hate my job. I hate work. Fuck work, man. Fuck, shit.” But it’s during those times spent stuck in traffic, having only the murky twilight of smog stricken scenery accompany me, that I begin to ask myself questions about me. About what I like, and why I like it. About what I hate, and why I hate it. The aim is to delineate and give importance to the vestments of my “self.” In short, a defragmentation of the constituents that make me (and you) unique as an individual. It has never, though, been clear, in my mind, how I choose to denote, define, and justify the reasons to write and better, what it means to write. So I am going to take a stab at it…right… about… NOW! No, just kidding. That would take entirely too much time to do, and too much time to read, on your behalf. You’re welcome. I think I’d rather regale you with short blurbs that give you insight into my life.
“Welcome to my world.” (It’s more dramatic if you read that out loud in an over motive actor-y way as you use your open hands to mime smoke moving away to reveal your face.)
So I went out shopping with my mom not too long ago. Yup. What I like about going out in public with my parents, individually, is that I learn tons of new things about them. What I’ve learned about my dad, is that he totally digs being out where a lot of people congregate. He loves to people watch. My dad loves to go through every possible situation that would deem it necessary to use some form of public/social etiquette. It’s as if he prepares how he’s going to interact with other people. It’s like: “Well, if you liked how I held the door open for you, then you’ll really love it when I pick up those keys you just dropped. All in a days work, ladies and gents. Now, for my next act, I’m going to help that kindly old lady cross the street…”
My mom, on the other hand, is the complete opposite… kind of. My mom becomes entranced with stores. Any kind of store, my mom will endlessly sort, shovel, and skim through merchandise. Like through all of it. My mom will walk into an aisle swarming with efficient and hurried shoppers, with a cart full of whatever. She’ll then notice something out of the corner of her eye, and just completely forgets that she’s pushing a cart, leaves it in the fast lane part of the aisle and walks off into a distant corner of the store to rustle with the discount rack. No attention is paid by her to the angry lot who get caught in the five cart radius around her, known as the non-ebb and flow zone.* But when people begin to cause a ruckus, I’ve got my moms back: “Deal with it, bitch!”
*A zone of tarry with disastrous consequences such as inconvenience, annoyance, bewilderment, and anger. A term appropriately made up by me.
