I just want to sit and be.
With you.
Dear Stranger,
I must seem like the strangest place to hear this from. Though I am under-qualified as a source and over-qualified for over stepping my boundaries, I must foray forth.
As strangers, your notions of me are either: a) nonexistent b) bleak or c) deeply disturbing. I am no better than you. You have a right to live your life without the scourge of being judged or ostracized for your actions. This is America still, isn't it?
I was recently roused from my slumber by the sounds of a wiffleball game wafting through my window. This wake up was no real surprise. I live in the wiffle district and 3:30 in the morning seems like wiffle time to me. The familiar cacophony of plastic on plastic and heated calls of "Ball", "Strike", and "Quit being such a fucking baby" lent a warmth and familiarity that almost made me forgive the interruption. The only unwelcome noise, the blemish on this otherwise noble feat, was the high pitched laughter and accompanying screaming.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOooooooooooooooooooooooooogggggggggggggg"
From the sound of it someone was having the time of their life. Fortuna blowing a mighty gust inside of their britches, lifting them from the earthly plain. The problem with this is that wiffleball (though great, albeit the Sport of Sirs) is not that fun. It will never produce the same natural screams as a roller coaster. The offending parties could have been immensely fucked up, but past experience indicates that this does little to add volume to a wiffleball game.
I think your screaming was fake. I don't think you were having that much fun. You may desire to have that fun in your life, that elusive zeal of zeals, but if it isn't there we'll know. Your fun sounds tainted and contrived. A fabrication of insecurities and falsehoods. You did a good job of faking, but you faked nonetheless.
You sound like someone trying to enjoy them-self. Every decibel is asterisked.
I can forgive the idea of faking an orgasm. I can garner the reasons why someone would cheat on a test. I can not wrap my grapefruit sized head around the idea of pretending to enjoy myself. It's cheating on your self, cheating on your company. Why not save the effort? If you want to immerse yourself in gooey emotion, go fuck a hot pocket. Keep the shit in it's heat sleeve to catch the bit of pepperoni that inevitably seeps out.
Your sounds have long died. Faded into the dark of night. You are probably asleep now. That's ok. I guess the reason I'm writing this is that you don't look back on this day as proudly as you should. Late night wiffle can be a revelation. A sensation for 3 1/2 of 5 senses. You should smile at today but it's hard to smile when building every anthill into a god damn ziggurat.
I once saw a T-Shirt that said "Women can fake orgasms but Men can fake entire relationships". It made me want to throw up. I was 11.
******
Thing I love: A friend of mine is devoting his summer to recording the rap song Boner Pants
BONER PANTS
In my head
In my mouth
In my eyes
In my pants
Boner Pants
For the last time ART > SCIENCE
Thing I hate: The severe lack of Siestas in the lives of Miners. If anyone deserves it, it's them.
Thing that makes me feel kinda weird: TJ MAXX in New Mexico. For obvious reasons
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