Forgiving the automatic “Fuck you” that flew without thought from my mouth and middle right hand, I was bothered by it.
I got honked at holding back the merge lane. My turnoff coming up quickly, less than half a block, I didn't follow the smooth weave and flow into traffic, rather waited for a safe opening that would get me across two busy lanes. When I checked the rear mirror for the “Huh, you honkin’ at me?” clarification, I was honked at again by a soccer-Mom-looking-bitch in fake oversized Prada shades and unflattering page boy haircut. Encased in thousands of pounds of metal people behave in a manner never pulled in polite society. Could you imagine being physically pushed along a crowded queue or called out for a bump in line?
I have the soul of a Twinkie. Maybe a Ding Dong, protected by creamy armor, definitely not the hard, crunchy shell of a Tootsie Pop or crème brulée. I’m not overly sensitive; I can bust balls and suck them back. But sensitivity sometimes gets the best of me. Often gets the best of me. When those I care for are wounded, feeling sad or confused, the same comes to me; like a father-to-be with sympathy morning sickness, I nurse a ball of stomach nerves and want to cure them, stroke away the pain. Make it all better.
Not long ago I sat on the couch with a friendboy whose life view profoundly differs from mine, despite my best efforts to fill his half-empty glass. He asked, “What do you want from life?” I replied, “I want to be spectacularly special.” I want to be the first one of my kind, the original of the species.
Take me as I am, all golden cake and fluffy center.