The Day They Found The Rag: Day 14
Well it finally happened. I knew this day was coming.
I was walking up the ramp towards my room to grab some shredded cheese and tortillas when I saw the cleaning cart outside my door. And my door was open.
I walked lightly towards my room, creeping my head a few inches in front of my shoulders and peaked around the corner. They were in there. The cleaners. And there it was, this morning’s hotel towel-ejaculet (say it like French). I panicked at first. They must know. Do I stay and watch them pick it up, just so I know what they look like when they do it? Nope. I ran back down the hall and I will not make eye contact with them ever again.
The bugs here (ants, roaches, beetles, spiders, and mosquitoes) won’t touch any of my food. It’s my electronics they love. As I type this I have the assistance of a dozen small creatures making their way along the keys trying to point me in the direction of the next great word. I count every step and arrange every surface in perfect right angles, but I don’t wash my hands after I pee. I only wash my hands after I drop the hammer on the toilet and when I have touched something sticky or oily. I don’t care about bugs crawling on my things, I regularly let spiders live peaceful lives within feet of my bed (sorry babe), and I don’t wear a mask on long-haul flights. I think all of those things weaken one’s immune system and I think that life understands other understanding life.
As I am an observer, I notice all things. And since I’m also a creep I make a big deal out of the things I notice. Like the times of day/night you guys post. And what you do for work. And your relationships. And your writing styles. And the small cliques you are forming. The writers that don’t get a lot of likes. The writers that get likes no matter what. The articles that I don’t actually like but I want to like anyway because you are my friend or no one else has liked it yet and I feel responsible since I host the group. I try not to do that much. On social media I try to be an honest participant. Meaning I like only what I actually like.
I can get into a flow and then look down at the word count and it throws me. Such is everything, when am I going to be finished? I just want to be finished. So then what, bud? What will I do then but start something new and only care about finishing it as well?
I’ve always wanted to fall in love but I never thought I’d actually stay in love. Like love was something that could be finished. And I know I still have a lot of time to feel otherwise but instead of this thing being a container full of precious liquids that I have to protect lest it spill out and disappear and shatter the world to pieces it is an open vessel that continues to grow and multiply and carry me through space like Where The Wild Things Are.
There are always interesting kids in every group that we work with. We play a game where we pick which kid we’d like to adopt. And we can usually all agree on 1 or 2. And they are always the kids that have the *uniqueness* that makes you just like them for reasons you can’t quantify. And I always ask, “What makes this person so cool?” And everyone always answers something like, “He comes from a good family,” or, “She’s funny and smart,” but I don’t accept these answers for anything because there is no way of describing the people and things that are special, you can only feel it, that’s why they are special.
What is it in me that connects with you?
Whoever chooses who turns out special has a really important job. I’ve met a lot of special people in my life but not one that I also loved and respected and wanted to bone 24/7. And it’s like, yeah cool write about something else already, but it all comes back to her now, that’s my life, and it’s the best life I’ve ever had.
