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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Goats don’t like Feta.

I came back from an appointment, none of any one particular business, but of many – not yours. Suffice it to say, I was in the orange and digging the gig.

It was the subway.

I know, what a piece of shit. Such a lowlife, I had to use the public transit system. Please, focus more on the word ‘has’ and the context you want to insert, for I have not inferred anything but the utterance of it…oh…wait…you have to assume, from the appearance of the clothes and my choice of public I am a common man.

A working man.

Usually on a discrete seat, with my ass hanging off of it – smiling, or with a tear in my eye because I am watching “Doubt Me” on this machine that let’s me see things, and create things sometimes.

She looks at me, and sees the tear.

I can not watch the video, and not cry.

This is true, as it is factus lebowskius that strong men also cry, twice. After periods. Real men, have to have 3 periods before they cry, but let’s not go there – sure, you consider me a pussy for your own story. Fuck you for judging it. You don’t know why – figure out your own reason. Real men also cry.

Her eyebrows cross – they knit into a small pattern and I go sit beside her. She has had a bad day, I am not too sure why, nor do I care. She has not asked me for anything, other than some kind of recognition of answering her human concern of why, transmitted in a code that goes back to caves and fire.

I say no words, I don’t want to.

I smile, obviously my goat has her disarmed. On occasion, lamb, but as of late goat.

Sitting on her left, I give her my left ear bud to a set of Bose earphones. She has no idea they are Bose, not that it will do anything for her greater than to allow her to listen to the soundtrack, and I ask her if she doubts me.

There is not a word that is exchanged, and she watches. Reads, her eyes will dart to me when she thinks she can breath between the music, and.

She does not.

Her tear proves it, as does her email. Her name is Janet, and she is a wonderful lady in a wonderful world.

If you look closely at the video, you will see her.

She is one of the grains of sand.

As am I.

As are you.

Believe.

You got the magic, and if anyone ever doubts it – even me – you make sure you stand motherfucking tall, sip back the shot of fucking right, and nail the motherfucking goat with some cosmic energy.

*abide*

By

Therapist Ingrid.

“The seeing of the therapist is an answer for some.”

The years that it took to get there, that is another thing – and the fucking chair, fuck.

The bullshit of having to hear her repeat, just one more time “but Ingrid says” – Ingrid has become a fucking bullshit voice that represents the ingrown toenails on your big toe, that you can never remove from the crown inside the meat of the toe, you know, where all it does is torment you, in any position. Fucking ingrown hair, right on the inside of the legs, in the special spot that all of the magic lessons are supposed to come from.

Ingrid believes…” sang the ball of confusion to my single daft hair. It was the left ear, and so it was kind of special, all the fuckers on the right got the front row seat, so with an equal opportunity for my disenfranchised friends on the does not feel like your own side of things, I kept my attention on the fish in the tank.

Wonder if fish would enjoy weed? Soggy munchies would suck tho.

This is how fucked society is, we are allowing others to tell us what to do, and how to run it.

“Listen closely, and do not think for yourself. There is a process to the paperwork.”

That would cause you be aloof, and obscure, you would be running amuck, and not in the right place according to the charts. These are the papers, that tell you that you shall be real, and well again. Do not worry about the other thoughts in your head, those are your own, and not for us to deal with now.

“We must take care of the social side of your performance,” she said with great curiosity.

Fuck, are my movements to apparent for this interview? Is she going to know that I did that, and where on the scale of the Klondike Bar would this fit? Is it ok to do that much, or should I have done less? What if it was a real hot day, and not only hungry, but thirsty?

Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone ever pick the vowel u? Who the fuck has to pick the vowel u, other than some – yeah, there is something hot about those legs, and with age it may come off as sounding sexist, but fuck. Wheel of Fortune has been on long enough, and we are in an open society. Physically attractive legs, are beautiful things, and we should be able to admire them. That is why they are groomed and made to look so delicious so we can enjoy them.

There – I thought it, that is a step.

Now telling Ingrid about what I imagine Pat’s legs to look like under those cuffed wool chaps he is wearing is going to be a bit of a challenge today, so maybe I can wait until after Maui Week.

“You must adhere to the rules, or you will not get any more assignments.”

Listening to the word is offensive, so don’t call them assignments anymore. Just hear objectives, sales objectives. The number had to be grabbed by one of the cogs. It was to be fed to another one, and into the machine went the dreams of the living, no regard for anything but keeping some kind of motion in tact for the performance reviews. They mattered, and not the lives of those vested in the funds.

The tulip farm was an ecological wonder, it was not without some pride the clogs just snapped into place. It was as if rhythm was a dancer, and he could feel it everywhere.

The sound of music the clogs made, three very distinct tones, Ingrid would never forget.

Wood across carpet, as it blended with the chords of metal along a zippered trail made for the Docker in you.

The small swift glance along the leather Herman Miller’s that were locked in place, long enough for three complete open and shut lids, in hindsight she wished she never allowed to get past the first blink.

The river dance of wood on wood was the golden pond of peace for him, for just that moment, for as the heels rocked him in his comfortable squat, he lay perfectly positioned over the papers on table and stared directly into her eyes, as he shit out dinner from Appleby’s the night before.

“Moon landing, shit cakes say what Ingrid?”

 *abide*