All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.

Category: Culture (Page 3 of 7)

Well what can we say. I’m a big white guy masquerading as a Puerto Rican. Shh, don’t tell anyone, I’m taking copious notes on my anthropological journey. No one will notice me.

A Man and His Money

The fat old one that was like a ball gripped his pen and scribbled something on the paper.  “Here, hold these,” he said to the other one who was standing.  “No, no, give me that, you’re messing up my system.  Hold it.” And he snatched a couple back, passed a few tickets to the standing one and directed his pen to the other. “eight, four, twenty-one, seven.  I have a system,” he said, “I have it all here.” The standing one and the one holding a little bag with money and papers in it, both chuckled. “Let’s see…” and he added the numbers, shuffled the papers, passed them to the other, wrote some more, consulted his crumpled little green pad with another series of numbers. “You see? I have it all worked out.” And he flashed it briefly.

The man rested his hand on his cane, leaned back and peppered his compatriots with little bits and pieces to match his little papers. “You know, you have to be precise.  I have a system, There is an order. Let’s see,” he said again. “The seven must be here, and the eight there. The twenty-one has to be like this and add this way.”

The other two nodded and remained quiet.

“Let me tell you something, my money is my money. My wife said she wanted an ATM.  I said, why would you need an ATM? When I go to the ATM, I want my money to be there.  Better to get them a credit card, eh?

The others nodded in agreement.

“I mean, my money is my money.  I need it to be there when I need it… not for some woman and her capricious spending. Don’t give them money, boys. Keep a tight rein on your money, don’t let them waste it.” He paused, consulting his papers again. “All right, I think I have it all, seven plus eight plus twenty-one plus four…” He repeated it one more time, double checking. “You didn’t get those out of order, did  you?  Give me those again.” And he snatched all his little tickets back and shuffled them once again, then dispatched them to the one with the little bag of money.  “Here you go,” and he handed over some bills. “You see? You have to have a system.  The system works.  I’ve been doing this a long time.  I have it all worked out.”

The other two rolled up the little bag of money and departed without looking back.

The Little Boys are Still in There

I normally arrive at work on my bicycle and take a break in the Plaza de Armas in Old San Juan. I usually sit for a half hour sipping cool water and trying to get my body to realize that it can turn off the sweat production. There is always a strong breeze in the shade under the trees and it is a lovely place to relax and people watch.

There were three old men sitting in a row on a bench facing away from mine. I couldn’t see their faces, but all of them looked to be in their seventies, perhaps eighties. One was fat, like a little dough ball with a cane, the other wiry with a baseball cap emblazoned  with USA flags. Did I see a military designation?  Couldn’t make it out. Yes, they seemed like veterans, pensioners passing the time together in the plaza. The one on the left, a dark-skinned gentleman with a lively disposition was searching for something on a tiny handheld radio. “Mira, allí, poco para atrás. Allí está. Aguanta.” Barely audible, he had coaxed a faint song from a distant AM station by holding the little radio just so. I could barely make it out, but then this little old man broke into a beautiful Puerto Rican folk song. He belted it out in a clear strong voice. I’m old, he seemed to say, and I want to sing. A couple of passing older women stopped to chat, to reminisce, and to hear more. After, the friends went back to looking for songs to sing.

It must be nice, I thought, to have such friends to hang with at such an advanced age. I peered at the three men, fiddling with their little radio looking for songs to sing, talking shit about nearly just about everything, the weather, government, who is doing what with whom. Old they were, but animated and lively like little kids, and I could see them, the ten year old boys inside, for whom a song, a tv show, a sports hero, a story, a game are all they need, and all the possibilities of the universe residing strictly within. I concentrated, and their age melted away. For a brief time I saw them as perhaps their parents had seen them in their time of youth – little boys playing in the plaza.

Men, I need to have a word with y’all

On Mother’s Day, the comments floating around the internet, at least the comments attached to actual identities on Facebook and social media, universally praise mothers. “Mom, I love you!” “Mom, you’re the greatest!” “Mom, you’ve done so much for us!”  And they post touching stories and pictures. It’s lovely.

Then there’s the dark anonymous internet where this gets passed around. Watch it. I’ll wait.

It’s okay to laugh. It’s funny. Misogynistic humor is the best humor.

So men say one thing when they think women are listening, and another when they are alone. I am a man, I know it happens. And this funny video, and it is funny, encapsulates every snide comment that men will make to each other when we don’t think women are listening. The fact that it is hilarious, and it’s Bill Burr, the philosopher poet of our generation, or perhaps any generation, validates our opinions, maybe even giving us the courage to repeat it out loud.

Men, I need to have a word with you all. Have a seat here, and let me explain something to you I feel you are not understanding.

This particular bit uses the comedic device of taboo and double entendre. Bashing motherhood as the hardest profession is taboo, of course. He also twists up the word difficult focusing solely on the physically demanding. In debate, I suppose one might call that a red herring, as it has no bearing on the argument. We are comparing two things linked only by the double meaning of the word “difficult.” Haha, I get it. That’s funny. Men, stop repeating it. You’re embarrassing yourselves.

Now look over here. Right here. I’m not going to explain this again. Motherhood is difficult, but not for the reasons that Bill Burr says, and not for the reasons you might think.

Motherhood is hard, because for so long, women didn’t have a choice about it, and still have only limited choices to this day. No matter a woman’s gifts, whether she posses the abilities and talents to be a math wiz, musical prodigy, skilled artist, brilliant linguist, promising scientist, skilled engineer, extraordinary doctor, principled lawyer, or honest public servant, she is tacitly corralled into being a mother. Our entire society is tipped toward that end. It may be inclined less than it was in previous decades, but don’t kid yourselves; women have fewer choices over their destinies than men do. They are bullied to think something is wrong with them if their life’s purpose does not include children, that if they pursue career over family, there is something wrong with them.

Men do not have this problem, do they?

Lots of smart fantastic motivated talented women are raising children instead of doing something else.  Or perhaps they are also doing something else, trying to have it all, but not advancing as well as their male peers, who are more “dedicated.” There’s nothing wrong with raising children, of course, but the problem is that women are coerced into giving up their ambitions and  having their identities subsumed by their precious talented children, so that they may as well be invisible and frequently are.

Here, mothers, I have a special present for you. Have a special day. We’ll called it Mother’s Day, and everybody will recognize you for your hard work. But the work isn’t hard physically, it’s hard because we make you give up yourself to do it. May as well call it happy womb day!

I could stop there. But why? I can’t identify a problem and not propose a solution. Most of the focus has been on women’s empowerment, helping women recognize their rights, their abilities. There’s the “Lean In” crowd.  It’s all good, but I want to tack in another direction, one that addresses the simple fact that it’s a man’s world.

Men, managers, decision makers in business and in the general workforce do the following:

  • Help women juggle the responsibilities of parenthood with your workplace expectations – provision some plan for dealing with single parents, whether it be day care, activity buses, maternity/paternity leave, flex time, whatever. Treat woman and men as equal care providers. If Bill’s wife is giving birth, find out what their situation is and propose that Bill take some paternity leave so that she can get back to work faster. It will benefit us all in the long run. Make sure Bill is not impacted negatively for his paternity leave.
  • When another man leans over to you and says, “Will you look at the tits on that one,” to describe a female colleague, call him on it. Set the tone of the culture in your workplace. Previously you might have remained uncomfortably silent, but now I say to you, step up, even if it’s your boss – especially if it’s your boss.  If it’s your boss, make an HR complaint about a hostile workplace culture. And it is hostile, maybe not to you directly, but don’t kid yourself, that toxicity will get you sooner or later.
  • If you are a father, take on as many traditionally mommy roles as you can. Balance your wife’s life so that she can achieve her dreams and not sell them to only be a mother.
  • Advocate for the equal participation of women.  If you are a manager, mentor a woman, advance her career, take chances on her. Don’t expect that the issues that affect women are theirs alone to bear. They are yours to bear as well. Take up arms against these barriers as if they affected you and take a bullet for one of your female fellows. The internet likes to call this “white knighting.”  I like that, do it. Be somebody’s hero and help them enrich the world.

If there’s anything I hope you take away from this little piece it’s this: She loves being a mother, but that’s not all she is.  When society (men) expect that women be mothers and only mothers, that’s what makes it the most difficult job.


Here’s an interview with a fictitious rockstar you’ll never hear.

Rolling Stone: So, Rob, your shows are legendary.  We know the women throw their underwear on stage, you are a man among men, and that the arena goes insane.  First, where do you get the energy for these performances, and two, what’s the strangest thing someone has thrown on stage?

Rob:  <chuckles>  I appreciate that you like the shows.  They are a blast to put on and the entire team lives for that energy, ya know?  When we’re on the road, prepping, rehearsing; we sometimes don’t eat the way we should.  I know I’m guilty of this.  We have caterers that bring in all sorts of wonderfully prepared dishes, but we just don’t get much.  Frankly, it’s mostly for the crew; we’re just so into the music, man.  We don’t have much time to eat.  Somebody’ll put a bag of Cheetoes and a coke in my hands at some point, and I’ll munch it down.  You know, if I think about it, I don’t know where we get the energy, by all rights we should be zombies.  It’s got to be the adrenaline.

Rolling Stone: Yeah, sure, adrenaline, that’s it.  <snicker>

Rob:  What? <smiles>

Strangest thing thrown on stage?  I can’t recall anything specific, but people throw all kinds of crazy shit up there.  It’s like some sort of old Testament altar for some people; they’ll throw their favorite book, article of clothing, sometimes food (although I don’t know if that’s because they were unhappy with the show), sometimes children’s toys, demo tapes you name it and someone’s thrown it.  People will put envelopes with messages to us, some desirous, others confessions about the strangest things; stuff they wanted to get off their chests. It’s weird. We just kind of take it in. These are people who have poured their hearts into us, our music, and they have this connection that allows them bequeath their guilt, desire, regrets, passions up onto the stage and then leave it.

Rolling Stone:  That’s kinda creepy man.  These people unbalanced or something?

Rob: No, I don’t think so, in fact, I don’t think they want anything from us that they are not getting.  There’s the music.  I mean, the smallest amount they paid for the show last night was $75 and it was packed.  There must be something they like, right?  They are yelling and jumping and dancing and their faces are lit up.  It’s infectious, the energy.  But if they are leaving behind something, unburdening themselves, it’s so they can go out without whatever it was.  The demo tape guys, are young musicians looking for validation a break, something.  We listen to most of them, and some are pretty good.  We have even gotten back to a few who knocked our socks off.  But you see it’s not really about the tape, it’s the act of leaving it.  They took the chance, they put themselves out there.  That act, I think, is all it was about.  It’s like the act of leaving a piece of themselves on stage with us, lets them purge it. They’re all confessions, really. It’s like they are saying, here I am, this is me, unadorned, no pretense.  Here are my innermost desires and since they don’t know us personally, they don’t have to worry about being judged.  It’ll never get back to them.  If the demo tape sucked, nobody has to know.  It’s sorta cathartic, i think.  It’s all good, man.  We’re just stoked that they continue to come to the shows and as long as they let us keep doing it, we’re gonna fucking tear the house down.

Rolling Stone: Pulled it together at the end there, didn’tcha?  You’re sort of a rock star philosopher, man.  It seems a bit incongruous to the stomping strutting arrogant rock god we all know and love.  I know you guys got a lot of bad press for some of the demands in your riders.

Rob: <Laughs>  Yeah, sure there’s that. You kinda have to do that, you know.  I’m not naturally a dick in real life.  I swear.  But sometimes for the show you have to act like it.  I totally swear it’s necessary up to a point.  We’re a focal point of male energy, female desire and to create the illusion sometimes you just have to say fuck it. <Interviewer’s aside:  Rob reaches across the table, grabs my bottle of water and pours it down his throat, then tosses it across the room>.  That.  That was a dick move, but you totally want to be me now don’tcha, bro?

Rolling Stone: <laughing>  A little bit.

Rob: There’s a bit of arrogance to being what someone would call a rock god, but I don’t for one second think it’s about me.  I strut, I stomp, I stroke my instrument, I sing, but it’s not about me.  Sure they came to see the band, but we are surrogates or proxies.  Think about it, there’s always some rock god, heartthrob, mega star, diva, whatever.  You think those people created the followers, created the fans created the urges to fucking rock?  Nah.  We’re just like vessels, man.  It’s not about me or the band or even about the music.

Rolling Stone: There’s a first, rockstar says it’s not about the music.  I mean we all know that about Nickleback, but even they wouldn’t say it.

Rob: Haha, touché.  I think you’re misunderstanding.  Yes, the music is important, it’s under its auspices that we come together.  If it was unworthy, they wouldn’t come… but, and here’s a big but, they would still come to someone.  We, the rockstars, are fulfilling a pent up demand.  We didn’t create the demand, the human need.  They wouldn’t be sitting at home if we sucked.  In a more economic sense, they have a set amount of money to spend on food and water, and they choose us.

Rolling Stone: This is turning into either those best or most bizarre interviews we’ve ever done.  So let me get this straight, you’re comparing your music to food and water.  That’s arrogant even for you.  <Snickers>

Rob: FUCKING YEAH!  We rock, now worship at the foot of our awesomeness!  Being a rockstar is partly an act. D’uh. It’s a shared delusion, one into which we both enter willingly.  It’s a collective delusion where the band and I get to feed off the energy of the crowd, to channel it, if you will, and direct it back at the crowd.  The crazier they get, the crazier I get.  We can’t control it, it’s a collective.  We all need to be worshiped a bit and by coming together in these venues, they get to experience that pure energy vicariously.  Hell, I experience it vicariously, even when I am on stage.  Again, the band and I are not the goal, purpose, or end destination of their energy, just the channels for it.  It flows through us, we amp it up, feed it back, and we get more in return.  It’s like fucking drugs, man.  I sometimes think that’s why a lot of rockstar do drugs.  They’re trying to fill the void between gigs.  It’s a real letdown, let me tell you.

We all have our roles, you know?  Some of us are builders, thinkers, and creators.  And some of us are clerics.  Not gods, but clerics.  We are channels and facilitators for spiritual energy not recipients of it.  We’re not rock gods, dude, we’re fucking rock priests!

<flips over coffee table and struts out>

Overlooking the Obvious

We’re were all out the other day doing some grocery shopping, when we came upon the canned food isle.

“Hey, Daddy, did you have Del Monte when you were growing up?” Of course they said it as “Dayl MOAN-tay”

“What? Hmm…” I repeated it to myself as they had said it. There was something off, something wrong. In a flash there was an epiphany, a revelation. Del Monte, is Spanish for “of the hill.” It’s a brand as American as can be, and the name is Spanish for of the hill. My kids would see it and assume it was a local thing, something Hispanic maybe Puerto Rican but not necessarily American.

“Yes, we did have as we were growing up. It’s a popular American brand, but we say it; Dehl MAHN-te.”

“Eww,” they all said. That sounds terrible. “You really said it that way?”

“Yes, Del Monte said it that way in the commercials.” I paused letting the wrongness of the words sting my mouth. I realized in that moment that the Del Monte of my youth was gone. I turned to my children with a confession. “I never realized until this moment that the brand name is in Spanish.”

I left them scratching their heads as well, their minds perplexed by the idea of daddy not knowing “Del Monte” was actually del monte.

I’m not even going to go into all the Hispanic baseball players I grew up with but never realized were Hispanic on account of how the sportscasters pronounced their names.

Turns out that Del Monte was named for a brand of coffee in a hotel in Oakland, California. “Of the hill” is a good thing for coffee… not so much for peaches.

Is “Once Upon a Time” the Whitest Show on TV?

Watching “Once Upon a Time” when it hits me – and I don’t know why I’m realizing this now – Disney is racist. There are no black characters, and when they appear they are either disappeared or killed post haste.

  1. Sidney / Genie / Mirror – gone, probably in jail
  2. Lancelot (yeay a black Lancelot – oh wait, he’s dead) uceremoniously killed by Cora
  3. Gus Gus / Tow truck driver – killed by king
  4. Cinderella’s fairy godmother – blown up

Seriously, Disney?

On the Death of Journey Sentences

This has been sitting in my drafts folder for over two years (Feb 19, 2006) – time to publish, I say!

You’ve all read them; they are what I like to term, “Journey Sentences.”  They are the typical sentences from the earlier part of the 20th Century and before. Most them would start out like the following:

Having all the deftness of a barnacled fishing trawler and half the wit of a common ordinary housefly, which is to say, not a lot, and wishing to keep up appearances so that should a potential suitor ever be quite so oblivious to said traits and stumble or perhaps bumble might trip and land with such a thud as to cause an impression upon the earth from which his posterior might never escape, Grace quietly nibbled on her egg salad sandwich.

Hah! that was a hoot.  Look, I don’t even know if that was grammatically correct or whatever, and frankly, I’m not going to go back find out.  You get the point.  But ahh, the journey sentence, the sentence which begins and ends you know not where.  Half the fun was the journey and the folly.  Might you reread the sentence, absorb its richness for clever clues as to vistas one might find along the windy path.  Lovely.

Who has time for that?

In today’s society with its fast pace and ruthless efficiency, we have no time for journeys.  Where are we going?  We ask.  Tell me now, dammit!  I don’t have time for your foppery, your magic journeys of butterflies and candy coated magical literary foreplay.

Let’s just get to it, shall we?

Perhaps this style of prose had its place long ago when the well-placed and small gentry of leisure had more time on their hands. Reading was idle time, time for relaxation.

Then: They wrote these crazy mad sentences.
Now: We watch people eating bugs.

Or maybe the world was so arbitrary and ruthless that literature just reflected what was familiar.  Whether rich or poor, you or your kids/wife/husband might be dead in a week from some fever, infection, or God’s will.  You didn’t know where it was going or when it might end, so you needed to be vigilant in all moments.  Literature might have reflected the capricious nature of life.  Meandering verbiage reflected what was known of the world and our control over it, which is to say, not much and very little.

I note with amusement that Spanish speaking people still have a tendency to write this way in English as they do in Spanish.  There is a taste to the words, something intrinsic to them that renders them uniquely  important not just as constructs of a sentence.  Their order, the languid pace, the setup, the tendril-like clauses that reach out in all directions pushing and pulling and twisting all feel like some kind of full sensual body massage of prose.

Is it a Catholic centric culture that shows less willingness to own the future?  It is not my place, I might say.  I am but a conduit.  The journey is what it is, to endure, to accept the way as it unfolds according to God’s plan.  Should it transpire too quickly, all enjoyment, all suffering, and by default all Grace is lost.

I’m not sure I buy it myself, but it does explain a lot.

Mandela Pancakes

When I finished reading Nelson Mandela’s memoir, there were many things that stuck with me.  One detail in particular, rattling around in the back of my mind, was the Xhosa tradition of leaving milk in the sun to sour it.  Apparently this makes it easier to digest for those that have mild lactose intolerance and is common practice for the Xhosa people.

Mandela related a specific incident involving this spoiled milk while on the run from authorities.  He was staying in a safe house in a white area, and without thinking, put some milk on a windowsill to sour.  A couple of laborers noticed it and remarked, “Why would a white man put milk in the windowsill?  We are the only ones that do that.”  Nelson was spooked by his near discovery and left for a new hiding place that very night.  Interesting, I thought, and yucky.  But, I mused, sour milk is absolutely perfect in baking, cakes and… pancakes.

“Yes, pancakes,” I said, “I resolve to make Mandela Pancakes.  I will call them Mandela Pancakes, and I will sing an African Folk song while I make them.  Nel-son  Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a. ”

Yesterday, I zipped out on my bicycle to fetch a small carton of whole milk for the purpose of spoiling it.  I left it out the entire day in the hot Caribbean sun, the sides bulging as gases pressed on the waxy cardboard container.  I picked it up several times to check it, shaking it for good measure and when the night arrived,  I opened it and took a whiff.  It was there, yes it was, that faint sweet acrid smell of spoiled milk.  Aha!  Tomorrow, we shall have Mandela Pancakes, and they will be delicious.  “Nel-son Man-del-a, Nel-son Man-del-a,” I sang, and the kids laughed.  I then told the story of how he was almost caught because of his soured milk.

Who knew the things one can learn from a man on another continent?  And it is suggested to me that these things we learn, the serendipitous delights of interconnected knowledge, are made possible by diversity, by embracing the pluralism we find everywhere.  And the pancakes?  They were delicious.

May You Live in Interesting Times

Me: I just thought of something.  Where did the word guapo come from?  Do you think it’s a word from indigenous peoples in the Caribbean?

    I was noticing that the gua (Gooah) diphthong sound is associated with the language of the Taino peoples of the Caribbean.   A good many of these words, guanábana (fruit), Guánica, G­uaynabo, (places),  guayaba (another fruit – guava), etc, are all indigenous and you can see their origins from the gua sound. 

Me: So I am wondering about the word guapo (Spanish for handsome).  Could that word have come from the New World?  And if so, why would the Spanish people have needed to appropriate it?  Wouldn’t it have already existed in their language?

    My error is a basic one, as I was to soon find out, but enlightenment is surely a blessing and one of the many benefits of being married to a smart cookie.

Laura: Interesting track of thought, I mean train, or whatever, but remember,  "gua" frequently occurs in Spanish in words that are borrowed through commerce and contact that have a "w" sound in the original language.  Remember "waffle?"  In the Basque Country they called it gofres. Ok, it did not go to GUA but it went to the gutteral "g". Perhaps a better example is the Spanish translation for "wow" is guao or "William" which is Guillermo.  Perhaps the Taino people’s spoken word for the town of Guaynabo, was Whai-NA-bo, and the fruit guanábana was Whai-NA-bah-na. 

Laura: I don’t know for sure, but some time ago I looked up Taino grammar and vocabulary and I found out that "gua" was a common article like "the", "this," "that." This results in phrases, rather than words being translated or transformed into current taíno words we know today. I think in my research I was able to come up with towns that were descriptive phrases "the settlement by the water," "the area by the big tree." Who knows if the name was an actual taíno name or a common way of referring to an area that became Spanish shorthand for a place and hence a name we know today.

Laura: However, in my limited knowledge of taíno words I can’t say they use a strong consonant sound such as "p." So I would be inclined to say that guapo is NOT of taíno origin. But then where did it come from?

A Ben Stiller Moment

This story starts out with some little details. I can’t really make them up, I wish I was that smart. These little details, represent metaphors for life in Puerto Rico, things that make up the backdrop of our lives. I’ve touched on them before. Flat tires is one good example.

This time, at the top of the hill exiting our urbanization, there was a backed up sewer. It had been spewing funky toilet paper laced waste water for the better part of a week. Each morning as I climbed the hill on my bicycle, I would gingerly pedal through the torrent, careful not to splash any of the filth on me or my bike, my poor bike. I was reminded of Jerry Seinfeld removing and discarding shoelaces which had touched the floor of a public restroom. I could do no such thing with my tires.  Ay bendito.

Thankfully, I had avoided the dreaded splash from cars or my own bike for the past four days. Cranking slowly up the hill increased my exposure, but I gaged my ascent carefully and with a bit of luck managed to avoid cars. I was ascending, however, where I would spend more time dancing on the razor’s edge, taunting fate as zippy cars raced off to the day of labor, their windows rolled up tight.

Coming back down the hill should have been a breeze, a smelly breeze, but a breeze nonetheless. The shoulder is wider, and the rivulets of dung laced paper mache ran farther from me. If I took to the shoulder, I was on dry pavement. Hurrah!

Fancy my surprise as a Toyota Corrolla flew past me at a breakneck pace, sending a tsunami, a cascade of putrid liquid over me. This was no splash, a few splatters, but a drenching shower, the kind that only happens in movies and to Ben Stiller.

Ah hell no, they did not actually just do that!

I chased the person to their house. I was surprised to find that this careless person was a 60 year old woman doing her morning shopping. Mrs. Maggoo, was her name. She was a sleepy phlegmatic character.

"Hey, thanks a lot for throwing that disgusting water all over me!" Should I have led with sarcasm? It’s too late for that now.

"What? Um, where was this?"

I couldn’t believe she was going to pretend she didn’t see me. "It was just up the hill here," I pointed, "You know where the sewer is leaking. You drove past me and covered me in that water, that disgusting dirty water."

"I passed slow, and you were off to the side."

"What? I thought you just said you didn’t see me? And are you saying now that I’m making this up, that you didn’t drench me? Wanna smell?" I approached her and leaned in. "Here, smell!" She backed away. Or maybe recoiled is a better right word for it. For you see, I did indeed smell like shit. She continued to protest her innocence, I didn’t see you, but passed slowly, carefully because I was being careful in my careful slow moving careful-mobile car of carefulness.

One pissed off, drenched smelly-assed cyclist in her front lawn seemed to have no bearing on her deny campaign.

I’m sorry, she finally said, or rather, "Perdona." Which in my mind never actually owns the fault. Maybe I’m wrong, but "pardon" just seems like a, oops I just touched your foot in a crowded room, not I just gave you you a shit shower.

At least she could have offered me a wipe to clean myself, a cookie, anything. Bitch.

"Next time, wake up, woman." And I pedaled off to scrub myself and my bicycle.


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