Taxes are done. I think. Says I'm done, but I only got a text about Federal taxes. Going to Starbucks to work. Later I will have to update this record as to what has been done of late. It has been a lot. I am creating and achieving so much on a weekly basis that I need to work from notes, it feels, to get everything up here. I observed something in the harbor yesterday that led to something today. Some people saw what I observed in the form of a tweet on my Twitter account. A number of those same people will receive a work and think, "Good God, how did that lead to this? And how sick is it that this industry will not let this man through?"
Yesterday I was sitting outside of Starbucks. They have tables out there. Two portly men--and I think I'm being charitable with that adjective--around the age of fifty, I'd say, were sitting together, and talking about "girls." They called each other "kid." As in, "How are her tits, kid?" It was tits this, cunt that, just as regular as you please, conversation right out in the open. They were so casual with all of it. And they call this woman on the phone--they had her on speaker, and she sounded normal--and they were trying to get her to come for dinner--or, rather "dinnaaaahhhh"--and bring her friend with the nice tits.
The casual insanity you encounter these days blows my mind, as warped and devolved as I know the world to be. These guys were idiots, they each looked like they'd be having a heart attack later in the day, they raped the English language with every sentence, and they're just out there shooting the shit about tits, and trying to go on dates, and calling people cunts.
"Fucking I get this fucking girl fucking shit for her fucking birthday, and it's like, yeah, you're fucking hot, but you make me work like this just to bang you? Fucking forget it, kid. She's low-fucking class, kid."
Neither of these fine fellows possessed a neck.
"Kid, I hit that, and she wore out my fucking dick."
Seriously--fifty-year-old guys. Under a Starbucks umbrella.
But apparently in matters of romance, they have vastly more going on than I have in many years. And the woman on speaker talking to these guys sounded perfectly pleasant. One of the guys got upset when she couldn't tell the difference between their voices. They both sounded like talking logs of bologna. I would think the conflation of their dulcet tones would be a regular occurrence. She was looking forward to hanging out with them again. And don't tell me it was money, because both of these guys had on sweatpants from many moons ago, and the guy closest to me had a good three or four inches of his ass crack hanging out.