A Sentimental Education
Sometimes when I'm in seclusion in the West Wing (read the "Living Room") for three weeks at a time I don't answer emails, return phone calls, go to work, or provide CPR to my octogenarian landlady downstairs. Sometimes, like Cooter, I just need some ME time.
During these periods of reflection I sometimes work on my forthcoming autobiographical novel, Ass Be Not Proud. Let me recount to you a little passage from my hot life that I reflected upon during my last period of meditation and solitude, and leave it to you, gentle reader, to ponder its implications for both Iowa City and our culture, as a whole.
As you may know, for several years I managed a convenience store in Coralville, the Handy Job. (It's a little known fact that all convenience stores in Iowa have to have a sexual overtone in their name. I think Branstad passed that law.) Anyway, one of my duties at the Handy Job was to stock the cooler, and pull stock from the cooler and bring it into the convenience store.
Sometimes, this really got me down, since, as those of you who know may know, before my ass went, my back did. The two may be related, but I don't want to get into that here and now. Suffice to say that I labored on in the sub-zero temperatures moving heavy boxes for several years, occasionally throwing my back out and being humiliated by my supervisor. The usual stuff.
However, one summer morning I was in there doing the usual stocking of the boxes when it hit me like a flash of lightning and the scales fell from my eyes. There I was, in the cooler, Stacking Boxes! Stacking motherfucking boxes!!!
Just like lesbians!
Lesbians love stacking boxes!
I quietly wept with the beauty of my sapphic approximation, quickly masturbated a couple times, finished Stacking Boxes (Hooray!) and strode back to manage that hellhole with a song in my heart.
...and that song was by the Indigo Girls.
During these periods of reflection I sometimes work on my forthcoming autobiographical novel, Ass Be Not Proud. Let me recount to you a little passage from my hot life that I reflected upon during my last period of meditation and solitude, and leave it to you, gentle reader, to ponder its implications for both Iowa City and our culture, as a whole.
As you may know, for several years I managed a convenience store in Coralville, the Handy Job. (It's a little known fact that all convenience stores in Iowa have to have a sexual overtone in their name. I think Branstad passed that law.) Anyway, one of my duties at the Handy Job was to stock the cooler, and pull stock from the cooler and bring it into the convenience store.
Sometimes, this really got me down, since, as those of you who know may know, before my ass went, my back did. The two may be related, but I don't want to get into that here and now. Suffice to say that I labored on in the sub-zero temperatures moving heavy boxes for several years, occasionally throwing my back out and being humiliated by my supervisor. The usual stuff.
However, one summer morning I was in there doing the usual stocking of the boxes when it hit me like a flash of lightning and the scales fell from my eyes. There I was, in the cooler, Stacking Boxes! Stacking motherfucking boxes!!!
Just like lesbians!
Lesbians love stacking boxes!
I quietly wept with the beauty of my sapphic approximation, quickly masturbated a couple times, finished Stacking Boxes (Hooray!) and strode back to manage that hellhole with a song in my heart.
...and that song was by the Indigo Girls.
