Mystic Metals Body Jewelry
It seems as if I only write when I'm thoroughly pissed off. I suppose I should apologize for that, or at the very least, work harder to write when I have nice things to say rather than shitty ramblings of why society is a disgrace and could do with another plague. I vote not worms because I am afraid of worms. How about fireflies. That would be a pleasant plague. Then again, plagues aren't supposed to be terribly pleasant. I'll put in some prayers to the Big Guy and let you know what plague we've decided should come. I'll keep you posted.
Our society is a mass of whiney, entitled cunts. On the whole, anyway. I'm sure there are some professor authored, tax payer funded university studies to corroborate that idea, but I am neither a professor nor a liberal tax vacuum. I'm just making an observation. Typically, I'll stray from the idea that the country is mired in an irreversible cuntishness and slowly regain a belief that the larger portion of people I meet on the day to day are in fact wonderfully beautiful people of body and spirit. When I think hard about it, I more so encounter cool cats and kittens than I do rotten cocksuckers. It seems, though, that we more easily remember the cocksuckers. That's vitally important to remember when encountering the entitled cunts. Let's explore. And yes, I just finished a complete re-watch of Deadwood, so my language will probably be uncannily horrendous.
Where did this fire come from? Rolling up to the bookstore today to do some work, I saw a couple of cars parked in the fire lane. Not an uncommon occurrence, and more subtle evidence to society's entitled and unbridled cuntishness. I deftly weaved through the Ninja Warrior obstacle course of ill kept parking lot pot holes, trash and puddles of mystery water which I do not want on my wheels and hands, and arrived at a giant Lincoln Navigator. A formidable sport utility. Gorgeous and brand new, and impossibly large looking when you're in a wheelchair and you realize that your head barely eclipses the fender. Engine running, tale pipe spewing a wonderful variety of carcinogens at perfect wheelchair breathing height. I assumed the driver occupied the giant vehicle, though more often than not, fuckers just stop their rides in the fire lane with the engine running to go and get their seven word coffee drink from the cafe. None of this was terribly interesting to me, as I was thinking about more important things such as the MLB trade deadline, which of the fifteen movies on my 'to watch' list I'll enjoy later, and why the whole chicken nugget pink goo thing really has no affect on my eating them whatsoever. This giant Lincoln did become of interest to me when I realized that it was parked and idling exactly blocking the wheelchair ramp.
I have a terrible temper. Terrible. My Sicilian blood is fortified with fatalism and a barely perceptible fuse which is often pre-lit for your convenience. I get pissed super easily. It's in my genes along with baldness, beardness, and the impossibility of ever growing to six feet tall. Luckily, I've suffered through enough therapy to come close to maintaining my calm, though it often comes difficultly. This situation with the idling Lincoln parked blocking the wheelchair ramp was a solid tester. I stopped my chair in the street, seeing as there was nowhere else to go, and thought for a moment. What are my options here, I thought. I also briefly thought about Wendy's Baconator sandwich, but that's unrelated. First I thought, "Man, fuck this cunt and her expensive shit that I can't afford." But that was an unproductive thought. Then I thought, "I hope she gets a pox of some sort." Also unproductive. Then a more productive thought: "How, from down here, will I be able to get her attention and possibly encourage her to move this beast out of the way?" A non-confrontational idea seeped in my freshly shorn dome as well: "I suppose I can roll down the street to the next storefront and use that ramp and roll back this way to the store I actually wanted to go into." A puzzlement.
As I wheeled closer to the ill parked Lincoln, I placed my hand on the fender. My plan then was to turn into the Incredible Hulk and shove the car out of my way. That didn't happen, unfortunately, as I forgot to wear my purple pants. A young woman was exiting the bookstore as I was working through all of this nonsense, and she said to the driver, "You have to move back," and pointed to me. The driver craned her neck to look at the object of the pointing. "Move back," the young woman asserted. I called out, "Can you slide back for me please?" After finally finding me through her neck craning, she backed up slowly, exposing about half of the ramp. I scurried up the ramp and turned to thank the young lady stranger, but she was gone. The Lincoln's passengers, about four children of varying ages, stampeded through the doors of the bookstore, each holding obnoxious looking coffee drinks. They boarded the giant vehicle, and sped off into the dusk without realizing how much consternation they had just caused.
After getting my coffee and finding a place to park, I thought about this fire lane parking thing. It pissed me off, and I immediately ventured into a thought process of societal entitlement. This loopy hooplehead who parked in the fire lane apparently feels as if the law does not apply to her, that she can park wherever she pleases regardless of the danger of impending fire or other such catastrophes. Her rapid delivery of overpriced and sugar ruined coffee most greatly trumps the decency of parking her vehicle and walking into the joint herself, regardless of the blatant lawbreaking that is parking in the fire lane. Her time and comfort is paramount. Then I had a more narrow thought. Perhaps I am the one who is behaving in an entitled way.
I feel, as a gimp, that the wheelchair ramp is my domain and it ought to always be readily available. Yeah, yeah; I know the law says it has to be, but I'm not entirely in agreement with any law that puts restrictions on others in favor of some. Handicapped parking spots included. They ought to be there as a convenience, not a mandate. I hate mandates. As I arrived at the blocked ramp, my thoughts were more in concert with, 'why are you preventing me from doing something I ought be able to do?' I was placing blame on someone else for being careless, and simultaneously taking ownership of the ramp. That in itself is entitlement. I'm entitled to use to the ramp. Ignoring, of course, that I can't get into the joint without use of that ramp. So am I condemning this poor parker with an imaginary pox when, in fact, I am exhibiting a similar entitlement? I asked Dave and he said no, so I guess this paragraph was a waste of time.
Anyway, as an added whipped cream to the frappuccino of my day, while I began writing this, some dirt worshipping prick fucker rested her unreasonably large purse, which bordered on the realm of luggage, on the handles of my chair while she spoke to her friend about the man she is currently sleeping with.
I attempt to take the time to differentiate between malicious behavior and distracted thoughtlessness. Both piss me off in Herculean ways, but I honesty can't believe that the purse lady thought to herself, 'watch me subtly aggravate this cripple by putting my ginormous and borderline checked luggage sized bag on his chair.' I honestly can't believe that the Lincoln pilot thought within her empty, bleached, and warpainted head, 'I will intentionally obscure the wheelchair ramp because my time is more valuable and important than those who are handicapped.' I think both women are just thoughtless assholes. There's no malice there, just irritating thoughtlessness. A sense of living in a self-centric reality not populated with others whose lives are impacted, however subtly, by their careless behaviors. We're all careless sometimes. We don't think, and then realization comes like a quick left hook to the jaw followed by, 'oh shit, I'm sorry,' which is more often than not a genuine apology.
But the honest carelessness can only go so far, I think. We have to constantly remember that we are willing slaves to a societal living structure. We need other people, and other people need us. People are their own symbiotic creatures and accepting hosts. The me first culture we live in makes others easily forgettable. We want others to be interested in us so desperately that we plaster ourselves all over the internet and obsessively wait for likes, monitoring who has yet to like a post or photo, and secretly hating those people. We're an awful thing, people. It's not as great of an inconvenience to consider the comfort of someone else when that consideration is as simple as parking the car in a proper spot rather than blocking up the path for everyone else, able or otherwise. Simple living boils neatly down into the question 'how does my behavior affect others?' If you take the time to answer that question for yourself and still decide to treat people like shit, then your just an entitled cunt and I hope you get a pox. But as I said earlier, if you really think about it honestly and objectively, you meet many more compassionate and polite strangers than you do hooplehead cocksuckers. We're just more apt to remember the latter. Let's also try to focus on the former once in a while. Stay beautiful, kids.
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