Slightly butthurt blogging from the laundromat
Sitting here, looking out the window onto P Street. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy and white, and a somewhat beautiful but slightly hosebaggy woman just walked by with what looked like a midriff injury covered in cellophane and tape bandages, but was just another large and ugly tattoo; she was in the presence of one or two douchey-looking guys. Someone’s tied their two pit bulls up to the bike rack while they’re in the liquor store next door. Skanky! And now somebody’s stumbling by and gargling obscenities like vintage Tom Waits with his testicles hooked up to a hand-cranked generator.
Life is good.
And I’m washing clothes, and wondering where I lost my now-missing yoga pants and my long bike pants, which disappeared this past week. It’s my birthday. I talked to my daughter. I miss her. I miss my mom. I miss having people who call me up and want to get breakfast. I got lots and lots of sweet people wishing me a happy birthday on Facebook, way more than I deserve. Last night, totally impromptu, I was standing outside of Luigi’s Fungarden talking to this stoner artist dude and someone rapped on the window and I watched as Adrian Bourgeois and Ricky Berger sing “Happy Birthday” to me from the stage. How friggin’ sweet is that? And yet I’m slightly butthurt. I want women hugging me, kissing me. I miss having a wife or a girlfriend who makes a fuss over me on the anniversary of me popping out of the chute. I miss getting together with friends. I hate being this slightly disgruntled loner that people don’t quite understand. Sorry, Courtney, but I want to be the shmo with the most cake.
Yeah, it’s stupid. I guess I just want to be loved, to be venerated, even if it’s only for one day.
I’ll get over it. I always forget how birthday afternoons are kinda like sugar-frosting hangovers after too much devil’s food and too many twizzlers and red vines and sodas, that moment when you crash and realize that the bombshell Bettie Page clone or even Chuckles the Clown is not going to jump out of the giant cake, and there even isn’t a giant cake or a party or anything, and you’re sitting around doing something utterly stupid and mundane like laundry, and the only women in the joint are, well, let’s not violate political correctness by discussing size or sexual orientation or even attractiveness, but just say that they are most definitely not your type. Fuck.
So just typing this makes me feel better. Yeah, I’m a big fuckin’ baby, and I’ll own it and rock it, too. Hard. I really don’t give a shit if anyone sees my stupid vulnerable side, either. It kinda makes me more human. Or more dumb. I dunno. Now my stuff’s in the dryers, and once it’s done and folded, I can go hang out at Zelda’s.
Probably time to give up childish things, and take up checkers in the park with the other peepaws. —Jackson Griffith