Last night, you confided in me that you’re wearing a corset.

I felt a twinge of masochism—yet, no. Not really. I definitely felt a twinge of excitement, however.

You continued. You love how it accentuates your shape. Your curves. The way it makes you feel.

And it shows. The radiance is evident in your eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes.

You called it a “waist trainer.” No apologies about wanting to be petite, beautiful. And there shouldn’t be.

You are a fresh breath of air, my dear, in this world. You care. You WANT to be beautiful. You WANT to be feminine. You ENJOY exploring this power you have over men.

You want men to want you. Well, you want the RIGHT man to want you.

Does that make me masochistic? That it’s these qualities you possess that captivate me? And not the others?

There are so many girls out there. So many beauties. Yet, you—you, my dear, are unique. They are not you.

It is your gift. Enjoy it.

As I watched you throughout the night, it was apparent. Your beauty, your grace, your poise. And as we parted, I told you to wear the corset more often.

Your eyes lit up, as you asked if I could tell.

Yes, my dear. I can tell.

Wow.

What i'm listening to:

WOW
Zara Larsson
Poster Girl

Last night, I had what a Midwestern house-frau might have called a ‘sode.

One in the morning. I awaken. In a lot of pain. I’m disoriented. And in pain. Panic? No, not really.

Dying doesn’t scare me. Dying painfully? Maybe a little.

Still not sure what it was. Still not going to check it out. Indigestion? Likely. Heart event? Possibly—although my pulse stayed pretty steady during it, so...

Anyway, I was awake. And the ‘sode really made me think about what goes on around me. And my daily battle—or is it more like a commute—between mediocrity and adventure.

There was an incident at work this week, as eluded to in a previous post. Upon my return, my boss’s boss paid the store a visit. He wanted to have a conversation, about when do I want to work. Followed by when I’m going to work.

This man is seventy-ish. He’s fiercely loyal to work, because if you’re not working, you’re not making money. Why would you want to do anything else? Day off? Why, he’s looking at another seven weeks before he gets any time off. And he hasn’t had any time off yet this year!

And he sure likes to hear himself talk. Scout’s honor! Because of his experience, he’s heard it all. And we’re all expendable. Which is why he can’t keep anyone for too long... but that’s okay. It is still a perfectly valid way to manage your shop—especially here in the Midwest!

Where dreams go to die.

Because if you’re not working, you’re not making money.

I believe his ultimate goal is to die at work. Prove his dedication to the bitter end.

I’d rather not die at work, but if it happens, I hope they’ll honor my DNR and let me die.

Memento Mori. Remember: death is inevitable.

I’m not certain Midwesterners believe this. There’s always tomorrow. Make plans. Push EVERYTHING down the road.

One of my favorite girls bought a new car last week. And with it, a new car payment. Plus school. So, she doesn’t really go out any more.

Because if you’re not working, you’re not making money.

Finding someone spontaneous around here is nearly impossible. Even the younger girls. This new girl who intrigues me, I have yet to hang out with.

You see, there’s this essay. She’s been working on it. For weeks now.

I understand.

Do I?

Because around here we invest in our future. Academia may be the biggest scam ever, but employers here are ALL IN.

Perhaps, you cannot be worth a shit at your job unless you are weighed down under enormous college loan debt.

More likely, it’ll create a false sense of loyalty, because having less freedom makes it harder to job hop. And impossible to quit a job without having another in place.

Because if you’re not working, you’re not making money.

That manager will never understand that there is more to life than work, work, work, money, money, money. In his world, happiness is a myth... although those fat stacks of cash he doesn’t have time to spend probably help.

It is true, that in spite of them overworking me currently, I love my job. I love the clientele. I adore (most of) my coworkers. And the money doesn’t suck.

Yet, if we cannot bridge this impasse? And I find myself unemployed?

Fine, I’ll be on a plane to Mexico by the end of the week. Next, South America. Then Indonesia. Vietnam. Thailand.

“Seize the day, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” Why does the poet write these lines?... Because we're food for worms, lads! Because we're only going to experience a limited number of springs, summers, and falls. One day, hard as it is to believe, each and every one of us is going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die!

One other thing the ‘sode made me realize, is what those gurus and life coaches mean by finding something that makes you hard. Something that even makes you not sleep.

I LOVE SLEEP!

Why in the fresh fuck would I want to find something that brings back insomnia?

Yet, when I awoke last night, I realized (I thought) I almost died without finishing my book. Without experiencing the love of these new women in my life. Without exploring these strange and foreign lands on my dream board.

That balance between mediocrity and adventure is harder to achieve than I imagined.

I did find some motivation. To write. To clean. To adventure. To love.

Memento Mori.

Because if I’m not working, I’m not making money? Nonsense.

What i'm listening to:

Ignite
Kristinia DeBarge
Young & Restless

Some days you just have to close the curtains, lock the doors, turn off the lights, and indulge in presweetened morning breakfast cereal, with little marshmallows.

What i'm listening to:

Sabotage
Kristinia DeBarge
Exposed

Recently I stumbled upon a meme that asked the question: What feels like it’s illegal, but isn’t?

Calling in sick when you’re really sick, was the response.

Why is this true?

I agonized over this decision on Thursday... much longer than I should have.

In fact, I even Googled: Why do I feel guilty when I call in sick?

Naturally, I found an article that offered reasonable guidelines for when it is appropriate to call out from your job.

One of the guidelines was, essentially, if you will bring value to the shift, or if you’ll just be in the way. (I am paraphrasing.)

I called out due to exhaustion. To be honest, management cannot name a peer who has logged as many hours in March as I have. I’m tired. Fatigue is definitely affecting my job performance... and that I cannot abide.

So... no matter how guilty it made me feel... I called out.

For the first time. At this job, anyway.

Which sparked questions via text. Because I don’t call out. Which didn’t relieve my guilt. Because I don’t call out.

But I am exhausted. Seriously, I would have brought no value in today. I have nothing left to give.

I had hoped it’d be like murder—easier after the first time. Of course, I have no frame of reference.

Do I?

Anyway, I am still exhausted. And I am anxious about tomorrow.

Will it get easier?

Like murder?

Or will I succumb to drugs that I know will prop me up and get me through another shift?

Odd.

Murder = illegal. Drugs = illegal. Calling in sick ≠ illegal. Why does it feel like it?

As previously stated, no one ever accused me of being smart.

Recently, I’ve been reading Hemingway. Last night, I told a friend about it, and his response was, “Why?” He never considered Hemingway enjoyable reading.

And while I am enjoying my reading, some of the stories are bringing up twinges of envy and memories from academia.

Apparently, I am a superficial reader. This leads me to wonder if I am wasting my time reading... because I just don’t get as much out of reading as some (most?) people.

Reading Hemingway, and experiencing iceberg theory, brings this to the forefront. I remember, and realize, that this has always been a “feature” of how my mind works.

Even in pop music. Yes, really.

And clearly in relationships. Ugh.

I’ve lamented in the past, and in this space, about how memorization is truly my strength—especially short-term. My memory truly works like modern computing. I can recall everything to the finest detail, file it away and totally forget all of it, then recall the entire memory—to the finest detail—on demand.

Caching is my superhero power. Who knew?

Yet I rarely ever automatically dig deep. The “meaning” of the piece is lost on me. I recall so many literary discussions with my peers where s/he talks about a reading assignment, and what it meant to her/him, and in that moment thinking, “You got THAT? Out of THAT? Did we even read the same thing?”

Then the teacher turns to me to ask what I think... and I’ve got nothing.

I like Byron. I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it.

Face value. I guess I wasn’t too far off when I mentioned I was shallow.

At least I’m not alone. This is why God gave us Wikipedia, right?

So, I guess when a man and a woman are having a conversation about elephants and love and drinks while waiting for the train, there’s something else there. Something more. An elephant in the room, if you will. Something a faux-scholar like myself totally misses. Perhaps, I’m not the deep-thinker I’ve claimed to be.

But pop music?

Again, I can sing along. I can recall most lyrics flawlessly. Even songs that make no sense to me.

To me.

My shallow ass was complaining to a friend one day about how a song that was playing made no sense to me. Granted, I may not have heard the entire song... a liability of having pop music as the soundtrack to a workday... but I recall asking her why this guy would want to marry a girl who was being so rude to her?

And when she started explaining, I felt about three inches tall. Like in those literary discussions in school. It almost felt like I hadn’t done the homework—when I had. Even IF I didn’t get the meaning of the work.

Upon closer listen of that particular song, he is asking her father for his permission to marry the girl he loves. And he disapproves.

How did I miss that?

(Again, pop songs are pretty shallow... it’s very likely I kept catching the hook amidst the chaos of work, and never catching the opening verse.)

Then again. This is coming from the guy who’s sitting on the couch, watching some sexy series on Netflix at two a.m. with a gorgeous Latina girl on his lap, drinking tequila and rum, and yet somehow misses the real reason why she’s there, watching some sexy series on Netflix at two a.m., on his lap, drinking tequila and rum.

No wonder she disappeared.

I’m not dumb. Just shallow.

And superficial.

Your incessant need for companionship contradicts my desire for solitude.

Seriously, if I wanted to people before noon on any given day, I’d go back to work in an office.

Ugh. Savages. Please, just go away and leave me alone.

Once in a while, you find the perfect fit.

And you maintain the perfect fit.

Through weeks. Months. Years. Every day. It. Just. Feels. Right.

You actually look forward to the next day.

You no longer begin to wonder when it could all fall apart.

You just enjoy each day. Each moment. You complement each other.

Can it last forever?

The perfect pair...

Of shoes.

Seriously, how perfect is it when a pair of shoes break in so perfectly... that eighteen months later they. still. feel. great.

Every day.

Yes, the wear and tear is beginning to show. I know it won’t last forever. But for now, I’ll continue to enjoy this perfect pair of shoes.

Free sopaipillas for everyone!

Okay, maybe I just like saying sopaipilla. Or maybe I just want to experience Casa Bonita someday.

And why is their "Feastival" ad from the 80s not on the YouTube? Disturbing.

Do you ever have a message you’re just agonizing over...

Hitting send?

Why is it so hard to hit send?

Commitment. I get it. I have as many commitment issues as the next.

The only commitment I crave is to my next nap.

Yet, life is waiting.

Some messages, it is wise to wait before hitting send. Gurus ask if the message fits this criteria: Is it simple? Relevant? Authentic? Timely? NOT personal?

Okay, it passes. Hit it.