look i’ll admit that i keep cut straws in the home as drug paraphernalia but in turn you have to admit that it’s super cute how my cat likes to steal those straws and deposit them in the bathtub
my friends: “brian if you’re feeling restless you should try podcasts, it’s like having funny coworkers”
me: *turns on 9/11 episode of Last Podcast On The Left, stares into middle distance for much of the workday, broken*
my friends: “brian are you familiar with white noise”
Two weeks from now, I’m visiting New York for the first time in five years. I intend to make a solo trip to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. Is it perverse to admit that I’m motivated by experiencing whatever feelings well up while standing on the site of a historic, globally-recognized atrocity? Not sure I’ve done any sightseeing at one of those before. Tourrerism.
I went on a date Friday. The woman’s name is Zeo, but she tells me it’s just that someone misspelled Zöe in an official capacity. I find this endearing.
At the end of the night, I employed one of my classic tactics: before leaving her car, I asked, simply, “wanna make out?” I know we’ve had it drilled into our heads that men should seize the moment with confidence and anything else is less than romantic, but I would gladly miss out on a kiss if it meant I’m never in a situation where my lamprey face is bearing down on a woman’s head and she needs to shove me away for safety’s sake. Besides, is it not confident to ask directly?
So moving beyond that hurdle, here’s how it plays out: either the woman says “haha not tonight” in a polite brush-off (which hasn’t ever happened to me yet because I can read the room), or she stammers some reply, unaccustomed to being asked, and I flip ‘em with a quip before closing in. Because nobody who wants to make out with you is going to decide, in that moment, you fucked up by asking and the makeout is DOA as a result. It might happen if they’re on the fence, but in that case, I insist that they didn’t want to make out with you.
Anyway, I share all this because on Friday it almost blew up spectacularly. Zeo was unfamiliar with the term “make out.” She was born in China and moved here three years ago. I didn’t know my tech could be stymied but holy hell she managed. I explained I meant “kiss,” the irromance of the moment palpable; we kissed once, then twice (she relishing the tease), and then I swooped in like men are supposed to do. She later told me that she didn’t think I wanted to kiss her given that we’d spent the past four hours together and I hadn’t made a move. Dating!
I feel I should also clarify: I refuse to write “unromantic” when I can make up the pleasanter-sounding “irromantic.” We all get it.
“There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where you ride a jet ski on acid and you line up three hot dates and also the brazilian teen DMing you says that she’s coming to Los Angeles and what the hell dude, what the actual fuck”
– Vladimir Lenin
Exiting my car at the sidewalk, a man sitting on some nearby stairs said “you look so kind!” I said “I try,” but it was hard to hear over the sound of my heart bursting. I think it was my sunshine yellow shirt what tricked him so.
Leaving the office, my boss’s housekeeper offered her traditional “be careful,” but this time she poked her head from around the corner and gave me the “I’m watching you” double-fingers. Is this yet criminal menacing?
On a flight several days ago, I sat next to a woman who held a pillow in her lap during take-off. I looked over about twenty minutes later and she had nodded off sitting up, neck at a 90 degree angle to her shoulders. The pillow remained on her lap. I reached up and turned off her reading light—the plane fell dark. Hers was the only light on.
The phrase “wowie zowie” keeps popping into my head, only to be immediately followed by the substitution “woward zoward” (rhymes with Howard). How bizarre!
anyways in unrelated news I recently dropped acid for like the tenth time, who’s counting
I was stunned to remember that when I was fifteen years-old I once fit my twenty favorite songs on one disc as a mixtape for myself and others. Seeing as I’ve lived a whole second teenage lifespan, I’ve heard at least twenty more perfect songs. I’m not sure any can delete the others. A mixtape of my classics is no longer possible. It’s a five-disc set by Rhino.
I need to keep a list of what triggers Alexa, as a TV character saying “well, fuck, that sucks,” is the latest and likely greatest.