course I’m using her for sex, as much as she uses me. I live in a city where it would take me ten years to afford a down payment on a house, and that’s if I cut back my lifestyle so I live in poverty while saving. Housing prices will probably go up faster than my savings can grow. What can I possibly fucking offer a girl besides my dick?
8 Something For Nothing
My mind wanders over whether or not my fluid transaction of the morning was full of purpose or just temporary pleasure. Yeah, I do find her eloquent in speech, perky, satisfying, and with a touch of class. Her dad probably spends time with her and shows he cares about her. The car jerks forward and spits out a ca-chunk of a less than elegant mechanical diarrhea. I stalled the car. The left foot gets lazy on the clutch when I’m drive dreaming.
I push the start button. A pleasant, subtle vroom alerts me to the engine running. You used to have to actually turn a key, push the gas pedal in, and wait for the engine to fire. Now getting a car started mirrors dating; one poke and we’re ready to move on. Ease up on the clutch, inch the car forward, stop. I’m now giving a purple rectangle paper to a yellow haired girl for a white cup of brown fluid and a few silver circles of beaver, boats, and moose. Her smile through the drive thru window is perfect and my customer experience is magical. If I could stretch out our ten seconds of bliss into a relationship that would be equally as happy, I’d have it made. Maybe my eyes would learn to not even notice her chipped tooth or imperfect left eyebrow. Who knows, someone in love could even grow to adore those flaws. A steaming cup from her hand to mine, and then it goes in the optional hundred and forty five dollar BMW sport holder. Pulling back into traffic is accomplished by spinning expensive tires for giggles. Foam shoots out of the traveler lid and joins the residue from the last coffee on the console below.
The Starbucks is soon a blur in my rearview, the last outpost of consumerism on the outskirts of a valley of poverty and shit. My art studio loft is on the long other end of this street of reuptake inhibited smiles. Mad Max didn’t have heated leather or a non-fat, no whip, half sweet venti mocha, but fuck me if Oppenheimer Park doesn’t remind me of Thunderdome. The streets are lined with beaten down looking people. Their faces echo the stained, once clean storefronts. The small neon “OPEN” signs mimicking the faint glimmer of hope left in the eyes of people who end up down here. Sometimes I stare while picturing every one of their heads as a hand with middle finger extended. I frantically laugh and speed up when I think of how close I’ve been to becoming one of the fuck you zombies. As if doing thirty kilometers-per-hour faster could outrun debt or addiction.
Shadows cling to everything a little more down here, even at noon on a sunny day. Unmarked crosswalks are everywhere and people zigzag through traffic. The view from above reminds one of scattering roaches when a light comes on in a low rent apartment. Up ahead a grimy yellow signals some bullshit delaying my drive. Caught contemplating running it for a moment too long, and I end up needing to use more brakes than normal. The tires give off a chirp as anti-lock brakes dig in to stop. I grab my almost-tipping coffee in my right hand and nothing spills out. Yes. The image of the internet meme success kid pops to mind while stopped at a red in the heart of Sketchville. Do these people even know what The Internet is?
I glance around with undeserved haughty disgust, mixed with curiosity and sprinkled with fear. My eyes meet with those of a native guy sitting on the sidewalk with his back against a building. The whole block might remind someone of a gutter as trash is strewn about everywhere. He’s wearing a Canucks hat, green t-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes that were probably once white. I wonder what he’s thinking while looking at me. He has
8 Something For Nothing
My mind wanders over whether or not my fluid transaction of the morning was full of purpose or just temporary pleasure. Yeah, I do find her eloquent in speech, perky, satisfying, and with a touch of class. Her dad probably spends time with her and shows he cares about her. The car jerks forward and spits out a ca-chunk of a less than elegant mechanical diarrhea. I stalled the car. The left foot gets lazy on the clutch when I’m drive dreaming.
I push the start button. A pleasant, subtle vroom alerts me to the engine running. You used to have to actually turn a key, push the gas pedal in, and wait for the engine to fire. Now getting a car started mirrors dating; one poke and we’re ready to move on. Ease up on the clutch, inch the car forward, stop. I’m now giving a purple rectangle paper to a yellow haired girl for a white cup of brown fluid and a few silver circles of beaver, boats, and moose. Her smile through the drive thru window is perfect and my customer experience is magical. If I could stretch out our ten seconds of bliss into a relationship that would be equally as happy, I’d have it made. Maybe my eyes would learn to not even notice her chipped tooth or imperfect left eyebrow. Who knows, someone in love could even grow to adore those flaws. A steaming cup from her hand to mine, and then it goes in the optional hundred and forty five dollar BMW sport holder. Pulling back into traffic is accomplished by spinning expensive tires for giggles. Foam shoots out of the traveler lid and joins the residue from the last coffee on the console below.
The Starbucks is soon a blur in my rearview, the last outpost of consumerism on the outskirts of a valley of poverty and shit. My art studio loft is on the long other end of this street of reuptake inhibited smiles. Mad Max didn’t have heated leather or a non-fat, no whip, half sweet venti mocha, but fuck me if Oppenheimer Park doesn’t remind me of Thunderdome. The streets are lined with beaten down looking people. Their faces echo the stained, once clean storefronts. The small neon “OPEN” signs mimicking the faint glimmer of hope left in the eyes of people who end up down here. Sometimes I stare while picturing every one of their heads as a hand with middle finger extended. I frantically laugh and speed up when I think of how close I’ve been to becoming one of the fuck you zombies. As if doing thirty kilometers-per-hour faster could outrun debt or addiction.
Shadows cling to everything a little more down here, even at noon on a sunny day. Unmarked crosswalks are everywhere and people zigzag through traffic. The view from above reminds one of scattering roaches when a light comes on in a low rent apartment. Up ahead a grimy yellow signals some bullshit delaying my drive. Caught contemplating running it for a moment too long, and I end up needing to use more brakes than normal. The tires give off a chirp as anti-lock brakes dig in to stop. I grab my almost-tipping coffee in my right hand and nothing spills out. Yes. The image of the internet meme success kid pops to mind while stopped at a red in the heart of Sketchville. Do these people even know what The Internet is?
I glance around with undeserved haughty disgust, mixed with curiosity and sprinkled with fear. My eyes meet with those of a native guy sitting on the sidewalk with his back against a building. The whole block might remind someone of a gutter as trash is strewn about everywhere. He’s wearing a Canucks hat, green t-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes that were probably once white. I wonder what he’s thinking while looking at me. He has
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