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Dumb Bastards
2003-06-27 - 1:01 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

Thinking about all the judgements on the lips of strangers around me.  I really don't care what opinion strangers have about me.  Wonderful, have an opinion.  But I don't want to hear it.

So much opinionated noise from strangers lately.  A guy at the bar offered his friend a critique of one of my answers to the neurotic newyorker that I was chatting with last night to one of his friends.  I'd just like to say a few things.  First, buddy, you wouldn't have gotten more than the time of day.  Secondly, dude, you really didn't WANT to be in my chair.  At times I felt like saying things along the line of 'I'm sorry, did I not show enough deference for you career choice/school of choice/place of birth/ shallow tale of woe?'  People who expect sympathy for perfectly ordinary difficulties should have to be my slaves in the afterlife.  Not that I'M a special case, but I do have a fine appreciation for misery.

Moped about thinking about Amanda.  Succulent little amanda.  Started with the feeling that I left with, that I wanted to fold her into my arms, progressed to sexual fantasies, etc. "How could she not MELT?" 

I nailed the playing and the singing.  It was subtle and quiet, not over the top.  She got slammed with customers and I played.  They quieted down and listened to me, then sat at tables as close to me as they could, barely talking, and if so, hardly above a whisper to hear me.  The axiom is that too much passion and not enough precision in performance is embarrassing, too much focus and precision and no passion is boring.  I hit it dead on.  "How could she not melt?"  I asked myself, thinking of her beguiling eyes and perky, sexy little body.  I left before she rang up the last customer.  Perhaps that will be my fatal mistake.

Or not.  Not fatal, anyway.

Because having a sense of humor when looking at life is key, and some dumb bastards never put that one together.


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