Between

I’m curious about the expression of being “between.” When somebody asks, “Are you working right now?” instead of saying no, we’ll say, “I’m between jobs.” It presumes there’s something waiting on the other side. It’s a way of deferring an answer, embracing the limbo.

I’d like to start saying it anytime I don’t really feel like catering to somebody’s question. I fantasize about answering “Are you seeing anybody right now?” with “I’m between boyfriends.”

People are always saying there’ll be another one coming down the line. I suppose that’s true, if you think of them as just bodies.

The “between” grants a dismissal. An I don’t feel good don’t bother me.

It’s a way of owning the space of being neither here nor there. Straddling the middle. Doing and undoing time, like Penelope looming and unlooming.

A constant qualifier of the self. Don’t tell me where I’m at, I’m implacable. How about you stand in my stead?

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Negging Mad Libs

You’re really ____ (adj) for a ______(adj) girl.  

I would totally date you if it weren’t for your_____ (noun).

Lemme guess, you’re a ______(noun).

Awww, it’s so cute that you know how to _____ (verb).

I think you’re really _______, (adj) but I’m not attracted to girls who _____(verb). 

You’re lucky you’re pretty with that _____ (noun). 

 

Now we are 30

I'm gonna start putting things up on Medium that are otherwise dying slow eternal deaths in my Microsoft Word documents. That's what Medium is for, right? So here's one, an essay thing about being 30. Been it for nearly six months now and it still gets on my nerves. It's on Medium here, and posted below!

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When I turn 30, I’ll give so few fucks that by the law of supply and demand folks will be lining up outside my door just drooling for a piece (that will never come).

If you want one, it’ll have to be a handwritten request sent in on the back of a circus dog with the scruffiest of hairs and then maybe just maybe I’ll consider it, but most likely I’ll just play with the dog and forget all about your vague desires.

See, when you turn 30 (I’m not sure how old you are as you’re reading this), you begin to ask yourself, where do all the fucks go? Like you are Holden Caulfield with the ducks, Langston Hughes with the dreams, Paula Cole with the cowboys. All the fucks you’ve been putting out into the hollow universe of unknown recipients, do they land anywhere? There is just no real way to put out a tracking number on these fuck(er)s and follow them to a safe landing, they are like bullets or balloons, screams or dandelions.

You start to think, maybe I ought to be more discerning with my fucks.

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