The coffee shop. It’s hot today. There was a fire. Big brown clouds out of Glendorra that make the light look like the apocalypse. It’s not going to rain, we are told. Ever again. The pine trees in the park are cracked and brown and the city’s going to come and raze them all. Their bark has been ravaged by the pine beetle. It preys on vulnerable pines in times of dearth.
What’s more this jerkoff’s gigantic head is blocking my view of the one hot Asian chick in the cafe. Do not sit between a man and a hot young piece of ass, if your skull is the size and shape of a wall mounted air conditioning unit. There is another girl across from me. Ruddy faced Irish broad but she’s wearing a low cut V neck dress and about an inch and a half of tit is showing. I’ll have to make do.
She is texting intently, one thumbed. Her eyebrows tell me that the text is really interesting. No girls text me like that anymore. Nikol has a boyfriend and Emily has a job. OKCupid is a god damn wasteland. This is the year Tinder broke it. For a brief shining moment you could get laid by typing interesting words on a keyboard. Now no one reads. There used to be blogs. Now there’s Buzzfeed. The dating profile of the future will be a column of GIF’s.
I should have settled down when I could have. But then I’d just be with some old twat. I want to be with some new twat. OKCupid, I pine for your golden age like a mother for her lost child. How is it that I can’t get a date now when I write for another guy on there and he’s killing it. He has a cool job. What if I need a “cool” job again. What a nightmare. What if to get women you have to be the only thing you hate.
Relax. Look at the titties. Like when you’re on acid at a concert and the trip starts going haywire: just focus on the band. Thank you for showing me your titties, miss. You don’t know the joy you’ve brought.
After this I’ll go sit in the park. School will have gotten out and I will leer at underage Mexicans. There was a purpose to my life besides this once. But no more. I will age and decline and be forgotten and die.
Here’s another girl. Big tits in a sheer white shirt and turquoise bra. Thank you for this clothing choice. Her face looks a little like Steve Buscemi had a baby with the Old Man in the Mountain, from the New Hampshire license plate. But big tits. I’ll take it. Floppy little ass. Maybe 35. Too old but she still has something. She’s fucked a lot of men in bands. She’s done slip and dips at hole in the wall art gallery openings with her belly full of Two Buck Chuck and cheese cubes. She has herpes, she’s had syphilis. She doesn’t give a fuck. Her hair is tastefully colored. She walks back, pulls her eyes far to the right to avoid making eye contact with me. Keeps her Buscemi perma-sneer on. To avoid looking at me she risks walking into a picnic table and taking the sharp corner right in the pussy. Worth it to her. I look like a serial killer. When a girl makes eye contact and smiles I feel like a romance novel cover. When she does what this chick is doing I feel like a slug on her sidewalk after the rain. An invertebrate. Not even. They pity the slug. I am beneath pity. Get a hold of yourself man. Look at the Irish girl’s tits.
She knows now. She is locking her knees. Awkwardly putting her elbow in front of the tits. To do so she has to fix her arm like a broken chicken wing. She knows. She would rather mate with a slug. Fine then. Fuck off, you Brian Cox faced cunt.
My thirst is so deep it’s permanently mutated my DNA. I can’t even conceive of speaking to a woman. Here’s another one, fat little blonde in a short short skirt sits down with her back to me. I just look at her flaxen hair. That Maurice Ravel song plays as I twist up a fistful of it and plunge into her fat white ass from the back. Looks to be in college. Her hair, her hair. Her jiggling white thighs. Please, Lord, just castrate me.
I have to piss. Ask the Irish girl, will you do me a favor.
Flirtatious. I am getting somewhere. I ask her: if someone steals my computer will you yell at them?
Great. Thank you.
I piss. But first I fix my hair. After, I think of what I’m gonna say. When I go back she will tell me that Huns tried to take my 2007 Acer Aspire. She fought them off. Stay in the can till it comes to me. Yeah, I could tell you have a touch of Charles Bronson going on. Good. Head back.
I come out and thank her. She just makes a don’t talk to me face.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
‘Cuz a lot of my friends are really into like sculpture right now, the fat little blonde is saying. She talks like a sparrow. I’m putting together a zine panel at Headspace. Colleen McTits has to get up. She does not ask me to watch her computer. Tries hard to get up in her short dress without giving me a panty shot. Fails. They are black.
Check my phone. Lena Dunham favorited my twitter picture. Her with Nicolas Cage’s head. This delights me. I have been noticed by someone famous. I’m in an Echo Park coffee shop drinking a tea called “Spring Jasmine.” Grinning uncontrollably because Lena fucking Dunham knows I exist. I prayed for castration. God said: granted. Giggling at my own shit like a little girl being tickled. Colleen sees it. Can’t help laughing too. Looks up from her book. I’m just trying to concentrate on my work, she says.
It’s impossible, I tell her, to see someone laughing stupidly and not laugh stupidly yourself. You should only feel bad if your book is about the holocaust.
No, it’s about the mutiny on the Bounty.
Was that a book before it was 15 movies?
Well it was a historical incident.
But no, I mean is that book about the Bounty, or–
It’s about six of the sailors who weren’t the original, you know, the main guy, who just took women and sailed away.
Yeah, with like a breadfruit plant.
But Mel Gibson played someone in one of those movies. So it is tangentially related to the holocaust.
Ha ha, yeah. Very tangentially.
And it dies again. But I’ve taken it somewhere. Now it’s awkward if I don’t ask her out. I don’t want to. She doesn’t want me to. She would have kept it alive. Still. If I don’t ask her out it is a cruel indictment of her humanity and bone structure. She is wearing plastic sandals the color of band aids.
Lena Dunham knows I exist. Ha. Take that, with your stupid schoolwork. I called her show a trifle but now I’m thinking about her movie, which I loved. That movie was genius because she favorited my tweet. Fuck you, you Captain Bligh studying motherfucker. You should have kept the ball in the air. Instead she is clearly nervous I’ll speak again. She just wants to finish her paper and go home to her boyfriend.
Now I’m laughing again and I don’t want her to think I’m laughing because of her. I’m hiding my face with my hands to make it clear I’m not watching her unbraid her hair and put it in a bun. Who fucking cares dude. Let it go. Norman Greenbaum’s ”Spirit in the Sky “ comes on the radio. The blonde says she’s had internships where they didn’t know what to do with me, it’s silly. She is 21 years old. When she was born I was already a fully formed human being and now what.
Colleen has finished with her hair. Looks back at the book. She smirks at something in it. I say nothing and leave.