The burdens of success according to a douche

We were on the couch watching tv. Some kind of comedy roast with the vibe of an entertainment awards show.

I wasn’t paying much attention, I think I was drawing. Until somebody on the show said something that sounded, or felt, like putting out a cigarette on the skin of a baby.

One of the men, I think it was one of the actors — wealthy, famous, older, with a golden permanent tan, a bit weathered — typical – was asked a question about something. He joked, something like

“Try keeping a marriage together when 22 is still on the table.”

I look up and see his bright bleach-white grin flash as the entire audience allegedly cracks up. My lover chuckles too. It’s so easy to turn a deaf ear to asinine statements like these on the market value of women, and their particular replaceability.

There’s a word for this person that comes to mind. Douchebag. A proper pejorative term, since it’s based on a product that probably shouldn’t exist anyway.

Months later, I’ve forgotten the program and the people on it. But their laughter sticks with me, and my lover’s clueless accord, and that unsophisticated man’s totally oblivious, carefree smile.

 

 

I’m diving right in

with little to no explanation. 

I’ve been out there, pouring my heart out to strangers and feeling like a freak but also just feeling like i’m right. 

I’m not oging to get organizded in this blog, I’m not gooing to be organized, stay organized when I get there, I’m just going to blurt this shit out out. 

As it comes. 

It’s going to be unprofessional, messy, maybe even

ugly.  At times.  Unlike other recent writings, the poetry and the essays and the stories, this is not for editing.  This is not for getting it right. 

This is not for making it look good.