THEY'RE MOSTLY MALE

The realization that I am not a nice person hits hard. And, by "not nice" what I mean is stubborn, hard-headed, and eccentric. Not fluffy. Not sweet. At all. Please don't hug me unless you know me very well, and we've established beforehand that that is okay. Irrespective of your gender or heartfeltness.

Most of what I dislike is half my age. Much of what I like is also.

The computer age defines my adulthood.

Good thing.



In the past, the dysfunctional element would paint their craziest thoughts on the side of a van and drive slowly around your neighborhood, hoping that you would take the time to read the thesis, and, flash of insight, disrobe and ooze after their vehicle moaning in delight. An acolyte. A follower!
My gosh you're grand, you butch prophet you.

Now they stay online writing in all caps, and nobody actually has to deal with them. Unless they're stoned at the neighborhood bar, where I remain at one of the tables outside with my pipe, observing their antics.

Paranoiacs and incels are worse when fully amped.
Better living through chemistry?
It's a huge lie.



Actually, some of the people I like best are one eighth to one fourth of my age. Already distinct personalities, but not batshit crazy like teenagers, or the importantly unique individuals who feel artistic and entitled that they will become. And if they're reasonably well-behaved, so much the better.

I still prefer to observe them from a safe distance.



Last night I smoked more than I should. There was a huggy nut in the bar, in direct consequence of which I spent most of the time outside with my pipe.
He was warm and "interesting", and hugged several people.

Perhaps they knew him, because they didn't clock him a good one.
Some folks really should not do drugs.



Two shots of 'Auld Sodomite' Scotch, with water.
Two bowls of blonde Danish flake.
Home to bed.




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