moisturize me
Marypat always pays me the finest of compliments, which means more because she’s a charming person with an interesting name.
Or does it mean less?
Nah. I don’t have that particular bent—it feels good to be praised by someone with a good heart. The medium is the message, and because of that, the message isn’t that important.
Compliments and revelations from people I have a mild dislike always seem to be specific and targeted, designed to repair some deficiency the speaker has identified. That doesn’t trigger much response from me beyond contempt—I’m no saint.
The church crowd burbles around me, mostly a decent sort, discussing the mildest of gossip and the occasional spattering of politics. There is one iron-haired idiot who is intensely fixated on how Africans had slaves at one point. Inspector Oatmeal, a nebbish elderly man with small glasses perched on his nose, sits, spooning small quantities of porridge into his quivering lips.
Who am I to them?
Lonely people write in notebooks—what other record is there that they exist, beyond ephemera?
Every coffee shop is the same. Life is full of so many unsatisfying experiences that we cling to the ones that bring us the most comfort. This is what Itell myself. This is why I am still consumed with thoughts of lost love. Or maybe I just ate too much pizza last night.
Hopefully, a future emerges, and a new thing appears. Until then, glasses of Bulleit will fail to do the trick, doing nothing beyond making the longing more golden. Karl Ove cut his face up when he lost love. Perhaps I lack the necessary will for romance.
Not sure I want any of it anyway.