No one believes it. I didn’t believe it, until I grabbed the bumper, tried to lift, and realized I didn’t even know how to grip the thing. I’m writing about an experience I still don’t fully understand, and the sharing of it is even more incomprehensible.
And Amazon, for all its bullying and undercutting, holds no monopoly. It is, in fact, the opposite: a monopsonist, a beloved monster reversing the grapes of wrath, in a sense, so product flows like honey while the sellers rot.
One day of climbing and two nights of camping and an eternity of driving down this endless, evening road when I rounded a turn and my headlights found a hitchhiker.
It looked like a woman.
At the end of the day I’m lying in bed feeling poor and stressed because I somehow wasted all day not feeling correctly. I was too sad, or too lonely, or too indifferent.
“Homosexuals aren’t people. They’re just like bitches.” — #LightRailRapper
You don’t talk to people on the Metro. You don’t talk to coworkers, you don’t talk to friends, and you especially don’t talk to strangers. Talking is the mark of the tourist.
Those old haunts the heart still goes to—even daily comforts brought me to them. That all might not seem like much. It isn’t much. But my heart is still a broken thing. My odd heart.
A serving of oatmeal eaten straight out of the brown paper package gets a five out of ten stars when eaten in my kitchen, but eleventy-twelve stars when eaten atop a mountain.
I discovered the other side of recorded music. The side we didn’t talk about in Professor Nordling’s class, and the side that makes recorded music even more challenging, I think, than live music.
