Morning Commute

You always see movies with characters who grab someone’s ringing phone and throw it out the window. I’ve wanted to do it so many times. It starts ringing and he can no longer be expected to listen, no matter how important the subject or person is. He just has to answer for whatever schmuckety Joe Schmo’s fucking calling his phone. And then the sock puppet antics, “Hi buddy! Boy it’s a beautiful day isn’t it?” Blah-bippity-blah-blah. Blah blah.

We were talking of some eternal tripe. I can’t remember; I can’t understand why anybody tries to remember anything anyway. I can remember all of it, actually:

I flipped down the passenger side mirror, took out a brush, and started blending my makeup. He was quiet. Then:

“Do you do that during the day?” He asked.

“No. But I’m sure if I did, someone would be judging me. Whatever I do, there will always be someone judging me.”

“But, you know there are social norms.”

“I think adapting to social norms is detrimental to one’s health.”

“But if you miss out on an opportunity because of this – ”

“What opportunity? I’m not going to join the NRA, or a biker gang, or become a top athlete.”

I don’t expect him to like these potted flowers that line the street of my manhood. But I will not submit to anyone’s standards. I will not stretch and squint and smile and say, “oh yes I see.” No. No. Just as I am, without one plebeian compromise.

I cannot live for both of us, old man. Just myself. I swear to God. Just myself.

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