Things that don’t matter

I like it when TV shows and movies make me cry. My dad loves to watch the saddest movies in the world. I once asked him why and he said it’s a way to practice your emotions in case any of those sad things happen in the real world.

I get really frustrated when customers order a drink but don’t indicate what size they want. When I ask, “What size?” they often step back and have to reconsider as if they have never conceived of different sizes for drinks.

A young law student and I were talking at the shop and I gave him advice that ended with “But, then again, I’m just a barista,” as in “Who am I to you?” But he looked at me and said, “Sure, but you’ve got your own narrative.”
I can’t stop thinking about that moment, with anger.

The way I feel reminds me of something I posted on an old blog (back in 2006) and it makes me worry that I haven’t changed all that much. Remind me that becoming a human is a slow process, please:

when i got home tonight, i cracked open a beer like i figure a lumberjack might, after a long day of lumberjacking around, which i can only assume- atleast by the feel of the phrase in my brain- is hard work. even though apparently what i do “isn’t really work,” according to atleast one customer today. although, i might rebute that, to a lumberjack, sitting around staring at a computer screen isn’t REALLY work either. infact, i think the lumberjack may assume that the hardest part about a job like that is getting the dang tie knot tied straight, or at all.
the first swig of the beer felt better than a lot of things have felt lately, atleast physically, by my self.
come to think about it, solo physicallity has limited exhiliration after the age of ten. before the cushion of childhood wains, things like jump roping, swinging at the playground, trampolines, running around in a field at dusk, tree climbing evoke such an unlimited feeling of bodily freedom. perhaps it has to do with a certain lack of physical sense. i suppose this means that children are completely ethereal. hmm.
“grown ups” experience this feeling differently, and mostly with regards to someone else…as in sex.
the only solo physicallity comes with things like speeding (car, bike, rollercoaster, whatever), while intoxicated, or of course during masturbation.

maybe i’m headed in the wrong direction here.

the beer. it’s flying dog. and, although i was at the bar itself once, with dusty, before i was 21…before i was 19, before a lot of things happened, it evokes no iota of nostalga. it’s just a beer. indeed i do feel a bit superior, having been to the brewery, having some tie in some small way to ralph steadman, hunter s. thompson, and in some sort of radical retrograded way, the 70’s. this one beer connects me to decades of history.

my point is that my work is work. it’s hard work. i talk to 300 people everyday, and work ALL THE FUCKING TIME.
i’ve been heading up various projects, and participating in everything…so much so that the highschool me would fucking call me a cunt, and spit all over my shirt.

My own narrative…………

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One response to “Things that don’t matter

  1. “so much so that the high school me would fucking call me a cunt, and spit all over my shirt”

    Word.

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