Hey, aging hippie. Look. I know you’re more enlightened than me because you’re newly 50 and you have the I Ching symbol on your ‘Life is Good.” t-shirt. But please try to refrain from asking me, “Are you sure all those tats were a good idea? Your body is a temple,” if you are going to waft down on the four winds from the Buddhist meditation center upstairs from the restaurant sporting all of the following things:
1. Thirty-two-year-old ringlet mullet
2. Pleated, stained, and elastic-waisted carpenter cut-offs
3. Black knee-high trouser socks with shiny new brown Birkenstocks
4. Grimy finger-printed Mason jar full of Superfood
5. Fake veganism
6. A six-compartment fanny pack.
You really, really aren’t in a place to judge someone else’s decorations.
Hey, angsty teen standing between me and my thrice-weekly Greek frozen yogurt. I know you think life sucks because you’re slinging froyo at the Bubble Tea Shoppe when you’d rather be writing beat poetry while you slit your wrists the wrong way and post the pics on Facebook, but do you think you could stop your Google image search for Yeasayer long enough to take off the fucking fedora and Blu-Blocker Ray-Bans and stamp my punchcard? If I order another one of these babies that’s my tenth and then it’ll be free next time so I don’t have to hear you call me “Daddy-o” when you hand me my change. I can’t make this shit up. Plus, it’s fucking 10:34pm. What the fuck do you think this is, a Corey Hart video?
Hey, awesome rode-hard lady who came up to the bar the other day and allowed me to take part in the following exchange:
Her: Can I go out on the employees-only fire escape to smoke?
Me: No, it’s employees-only.
Her: I can’t just go out there and smoke real quick?
Me: No, it goes against our insurance policy. There’s a giant hole in the fire escape.
Her: Well, I know the owner of this bar, he’s my friend.
Me: I know the owner too. He pays me to be his friend.
Her: Can I get another Miller Lite? And I’ll ask you one more time. Can I go out on the fire escape to smoke?
Her: I’ll have you know I helped build this bar.
Me: Well I’m helping to rebuild this bar, and you can’t smoke in off-limits areas.
Her: *rolls eyes* Well I’m not used to being told “no” in this bar I guess.
Hey Kids in Camp Big Foot circa 1992: Thanks for forming an “I Hate Amanda Brown” club when we were at the swimming pool that one time. It really taught me a lot about myself. I was so desperate to be part of a group, any group, that I actually asked if I could join the club, and you all said No. It was that very moment that I realized I was socially light years ahead of you all and so instead of tattling I went into the common area and played Extreme’s More Than Words 7″ on the record player over and over again until it was time to go home. I’ve not given a shit about being part of a group since then, and that song is on every playlist on my iPod to this very day.
Hey, Iron and Wine: why did it take me till I was Almost Thirty to realize you’re the best?
Hey, every writer ever: The only thing worse than not having a muse is deciding you’re someone else’s without informing them first.
Hey boy with the drawl: I hear your voice everywhere. . .now when I talk to myself out loud in my car, which is every time I start the ignition, I do it out loud in that perfect voice. . .it is so imperative that I hear it constantly that I’ve perfected it for my own private use. . .it’s horribly over-exaggerated when I do it and I don’t care. . .
Hey, vodka sodas: I love that you go completely undetected when you’re being consumed by the unfuckwithables.
Hey Mateo Boyoboy: You’re only part of my Extended Network and I only know who you are because I think our one mutual friend’s Facebook wall is one of the funniest, most entertaining things on the internet, and I don’t know you and I never will but I just want you to know that even though that’s probably not your real name, I find myself saying it over and over again out loud in a southern drawl when I drive in my car alone.
Hey Matt: I hope this will suffice for tomorrow, and thanks for reading every single post I’ve ever made in my whole life on WordPress. The Fartscenter can be a lonely place in the wee morning hours, but I can rest assured you know me as much as the Information Superhighway can possibly allow.