It’s official. I need to disengage from the world for a while. I need to hide out in a cabin in the woods for the better part of forever. Or a cabin in the mountains. Or a beach shack somewhere. Why not all three? I’ll just rotate around the different seasons. Somehow they’ll all be magically stocked with everything I need and even some things I don’t. Just as long as I can completely disengage from humanity for a while. That’s the main goal here. I’m not trying to ‘rough it’ or anything. Hell, I couldn’t hunt for food if my life depended on it. I can’t even bait a hook with a live worm. Poor worm! Poor fish! It’s all so tragic. I eat meat, of course. I just can’t actively participate in the killing of the meat.
I went Christmas shopping today. Hence the need to disengage. It’s so awful. And before you make any remarks about how shopping between Halloween and Thanksgiving would alleviate this need for solitude, I’ll have you know I always feel this way when I have to go shopping. I do not enjoy shopping. I like things and I like buying things but I do not like other people who also want to buy things. I do not like the sad, old men sitting on the benches while their ladies have been in the same store for half a century and still can’t decide on the red or other-red scarf. I can’t stand to see them dejectedly pushing the carts around after their Martha’s and Shirley’s while both Martha and Shirley have been standing in the middle of aisle 3 for thirty minutes now talking about the church potluck. I want to punch both Martha and Shirley in the face and take ol’ Tom and Ed to that little bar up the road, settle them in all nice and comfy at a corner table, order their seltzer water and tell the bartender to turn the game on already. Poor Tom and Ed. Neither one drinks much anymore but they still enjoy the atmosphere of a bar with a ballgame on in the background. At least let them have that while you ladies take up the entire aisle talking about the same shit you always talk about. And for the love of all that is holy, enough with the hairspray and baby powder perfume. I can’t even deal.
And double fuck the socialite moms with their oversized sunglasses and Starbucks. Bitch, it’s raining. It’s actually raining. They’re constantly on the phone and have to stop right in front of you to shoot off a text to …who? The Queen of England, apparently, because it cannot wait one fucking millisecond. You’re just going to have to deal with it whoever you are behind me because don’t you know I don’t give a fuck about you. You are a mere peasant. Didn’t you know you were in the presence of royalty? I don’t know, ma’am, half your face is hidden under those giant sunglasses and the other half is swollen from the lip plumpers your husband keeps begging you not to get because you can’t suck dick for at least a week after the injection and a dick suck is all the poor bastard gets anymore now that you’ve gained a few pounds around your middle that NO ONE can even see except you. Maybe those fake eyelashes are casting a shadow on your tummy and making it appear to have grown an actual curve?. Go sit down somewhere. You fucking exhaust me
God, the teenagers and the couples in love and the awkward dads and the single moms and the kids and the babies and even me and my own goddamn self who is just as annoying to someone else as they are to me. It drives me as batshit as all the crap stuffed on all the shelves everywhere all over every damn store you walk into. There are literal pathways through all the junk, forcing you to walk single file like you’re back in elementary school. There’s a million different versions of the same thing everywhere. There are 76 shades of this brown pottery and 184 portraits of this painting with the red dot in a slightly different place. Changes the whole meaning of the piece, don’t ya think? NO. I don’t. Put the red dot back where it belongs and destroy the other one hundred eighty three imitations.
Awww, fuck. I’m turning into an ornery old lady! I’m gonna be swinging a cane around pretty soon and yelling at all the neighborhood kids from the rocker on my front porch.
Except I won’t. I’ll just keep it all to myself and then vent to you about it when I get home. I’ll get on my soap box and deliver a tirade so full of expletives you’ll have no choice but to grab me off that soap box, haul me into the bedroom, throw me on the bed and proceed to pound all the bah humbug right back out of my bones.
Then we’ll decorate sugar cookies and lick icing off each other.
Like these. Maybe your name will be on one next year.