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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