TWITTER IS UP BUT NO ONE IS HOME
He drives, his wife is a responsible person, and he has nearly grown kids. And he wears sunglasses. No human alive knows what lives behind the bug-like shades. Unspeakable horror. Twinkling black holes.
The last thing that Peter Pan saw before he died.
He is special, a rare and unique person.
Like so many folks in Marin.
"The Illuminati are NOT Santa Claus!"
Like all white men of a certain age, I also have experimented with illicit substances. But I vastly prefer something more gradual in effect, fairly controllable, infinitely cheaper, and much more "snap-outable".
I am a cheapskate Dutchman, and a control-freak.
The effect of pot on the mind is loathsome.
Everyone I know who smokes marijuana because it is "therapeutic" is a boring dingo with shit for brains. That stuff ought to be outlawed.
In any case, my stupider younger years are long past, and I have acquired some gravitas. That may be hard to grasp for some people.
But I am slowly slipping into adulthood.
The person of whom I speak may never get there. He's still the same teenager he was when he dodged the draft. With somewhat more absurd ideas than he had then, and older habits. He smokes cigars, which have a calming effect, but horse valium is what is really needed.
Along with the man who lectures me about his imaginary wife and daughter (and life as a podiatrist, doctor of divinity, nuclear physicist, and jet fighter pilot), I am guaranteed that a few necessary conversational interactions in Marin while at work are long, pointless, and somewhat draining.
I don't dislike either man, but they need lives.
Rich full lives, that don't involve me.
Rather than a series of interminable chitterchats with self-absorbed twats, what I should rather have is a fierce argument with a bright young female determined to get me to bed so that she can jump my creaky middle-aged bones, despite my frantic and ultimately failing panicked protestations, with no cigars anywhere nearby, nor the insufferable goobers who huff them.
If she felt inspired to bring up weltschmerz, existenzangst, identitätskrisen, gicht, and zweifelhaft at any point in that process, I would be delighted to discuss such matters. Utterly. And how charming that would be.
Over coffee and a light lunch, before, during, or after.
This is not likely to happen anytime soon.
Which is unfortunate.
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