Bad Bitches

I wrote this October of 2014 and when I read it just now I thought it was so fucking funny that I felt the need to post it again.  Please Read

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Bad Bitches Only

The chef in this place has a hat turned backwards which reads “bad bitches only” even though I agree with his hat it seems inappropriate for the current circumstance which is a hipster coffee shop. You know the ones I’m talking about. Overpriced lattes and slices of pie. Wooden chairs and a quaint demeanor probably playing Lana Del Rey “Summertime Sadness”. Filled to the brim with girls on there phones and guys sitting with laptops and headphones tucked under their beanies trying to figure out something cool to do on their computer. Please find humor in the fact that I just described myself perfectly but back to the hat. I would say only about 17% of the people in this place know exactly what a bad bitch is. The fact that anyone is present here in this coffee automatically disqualifies them from bad bitch standing. Which is entirely contradictory to his hat. I mean i’m pretty sure this fucking place is called pie. I haven’t seen one person buy a slice of pie. I think it would be better if this place was called wifi because thats the only reason anyone comes here. In regards to the “bad bitches only” hat, I think it would be funnier if it said “basic bitches only” because no one ever says that. I also feel like it would be more appropriate in this current situation. I am willing to associate my name with basic bitches for the sake of bringing you this story. I think you should appreciate the sacrifice. Next time you are in one if these coffee shops (if you ever are) look around and count how many bad bitches there are. I bet you the ratio of bad to basic bitches would astound you. I mean the guy woke up this morning heading to his job at Pie to make pies and made a decision to put on a hat that said “bad bitches only”. He has got to be overcompensating for something. Maybe he himself lacks the multitude of bad bitches that his hat seems to claim. Maybe he had a bad bitch but she moved on to greener pastures and now he is wearing the hat because he still hasn’t moved on. Maybe he is worried about his own basicness so he wears the hat to make people think he only associates with bad bitches. I feel you brother but you must accept your basicness if it is inside you. If you like to watch Dexter all night and drive a Vespa to work that’s who you are and you should be proud. I accept you. Take off the hat. At least now whenever I eat a piece of pie I will think about the man in the bad bitch hat and I will remember to always accept myself for who I am and not let anyone tell me who I am. I am a bad bitch

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street parking

If your car is parked across the street in front of your house, even if you were in a rush you would have to look both ways before you walk to it.  Sometimes at night when it’s cool, the rain doesn’t fall but rather floats to the ground.  It lightly finds its way down and becomes wet pavement.  If you went to walk to your car and there happened to be a car driving by that you had to wait for, you would be able to see small drops of water hanging in the beams of the cars headlights.  The drops would look like they were all dancing with each other.  You would only be able to see them if you had to walk to your car, and it was night, and the rain fell like that, and you didn’t rush across the street to beat the car.  You would only see it if you stopped to look both ways.  If anyone asked you, you could tell them you had to wait for a car to pass and you saw the rain dancing.

quicksand

This was supposed to be a poem that turned into more of a short story.

quicksand

I try to forget about her and the love that we shared.  But every time I see her I fall in love with her again.  I fall deeper each time like trying to escape from quicksand.  She is beautiful and from my perspective she is perfect.

There was one cold night when she lay in my bed.  It was dark except for a small sliver of light that shown through the blinds exposing her face and neck.  Her diaphanous features made my heart jump like a scared cat.  The pale light rested on her soft lips and as I rubbed her neck I stole a kiss and inhaled her breath.  I wanted to steal away with the bounty of her, but her defensiveness thwarted my attempts at rekindling a forgotten love.  The love that I squandered with immaturity.  The glass that I fill up with sorrow now has a glass next to it filled with regret.  Both goblets are brimming and glimmering as our bodies come close and our hearts seem to touch but only in the memory of a forgotten tryst.  It was like she left and I stayed foolishly.  When I finally made the decision to follow her the time had created a wedge in our energies.  I feel disconnected, indifferent.  Lost would be a slight overstatement considering I am still able to find love.  I want her to be mine but I don’t want to possess her like an object.  I just want to always have the idea of her as the pure and innocent young girl that I knew.  I only wish to supplement her beauty with tenderness and so that when she smiles it isn’t just her beauty but the emotion of love emanating from her lips.  Our connection seems to rise and fall like that hands of a clock and I can only hope that our love unfurls as the second hand strikes midnight.

1/5/16

The rain rolled down the roof and tapped on his window as if trying to wake him.  But he lay idle like a car at a red light.  His eyes to the ceiling the lights were dimmed and he relished in the sound of it.  The sound of his inspiration, his obsession.  The rain was still falling when he woke up the next morning so he took it with coffee and a book.  In his little nook he listened to the first rain of the year.

It was a cold Winter morning when the rain ceased just long enough for the sun to peak through dark grey clouds.  Rain water was settled on the green shrubs below his balcony and reflected the rays of the sun up into his leathered face.  In the light of the silence he began to comprehend his obsession with the rain.

His infatuation was in the mystery of the rain.  Since it was something he was unaccustomed to, he treated it like a beautiful stranger of which he wanted to become acquainted.  His mood was acquiescent as he meditated.  He thought about all the things he hadn’t done.  He knew the sun but it was the same sun he grew up with and knew all about it.  He knew the air because it was the same air that he respired as a young boy.  The dirt in which he gardened was the same soil that had always dirtied his hands.  The lack of seasons and constant sunlight in Southern California can make life dull at times.  The rain brought a peculiar contrast with its enigma.  His creative faculty was exacerbated by the rain and fact that he had no tasks for the day.  He felt the urge to bask in it, to use it selfishly.  He felt the rain bring change in his emotion and an association with simpler times.  He also felt the collective subconscious of those around him feeling the same thing.  He felt joy in the motivation rain brought to him.  At the same time the rain felt like heartache.  He still isn’t sure what it means.