HBD to Me

You get to greet a person on his birthday once a year. So I don't think it's good fucking form that you abbreviate your well wishes with a god damn HBD. Girl, we're talking about a one time deal in 365 days, so I think it's just proper. Perhaps I'll let your HBD slip if you still have finger cramps from masturbating too much, but you don't. FY. And it doesn't matter to me that it's in social media. Who has time for real interaction these days? The least you could have done was to spell out your greetings. It's once a year. OMWTFGAF. 

I'm exaggerating of course. You know I'm a dick who loves dick. TY. 

I meant to enlarge on this update some more, and I was on leave for five days. But I was drunk for four days, and I had to attend to my sexy lady guard job on the sixth. 

There are Two Kinds of Salad Spinners in this Planet

This Essentialist Salad Spinner sits on the kitchen counter and waits for its owner to spin salad. It was meant to spin salad, its engineering is for spinning salad, and it was purchased to spin salad. This Essentialist Salad Spinner devotes all its salad spinner energies, which are mostly centripetal, to its one calling. And it attends to this purpose, which is arguably divine, with the focused dedication of an Essentialist Salad Spinner. It was meant to spin salad, and it will spin salad, and it will spin salad better than the next salad spinner, which is unacceptable if its not an Essentialist Salad Spinner.

Of course you should know, My Dearly Beloved Sweets Nuts, that by "spinning salad" we mean "washing leaves." And by "leaves" we mean the usual greens that are best enjoyed with dressing. These leaves include lettuce, arugula, and why the fuck am I listing greens, and the Essentialist Salad Spinner attends to these leaves with strict adherence to tradition. Do not doubt the Essentialist Salad Spinner for it married itself to its purpose in the same way that other people pronounce their marriage to Jesus. The Essentialist Salad Spinner knows its shit full well.

The Essentialist Salad Spinner came out of this box with pictures of a Salad Spinner on its front face, instructions for use at the right, product details on the left, and a picture of a thin lady enjoying a salad at the back face. Salad Lady is wearing a green tank top with a smiley face on it.

An Existentialist Salad Spinner, meanwhile, decides that it wants to do something else with its shelf life. It begins as a Salad Spinner from a similar box as the Essentialist Salad Spinner. It came with the same set of instructions, its colander is of the same proportions as the Essentialist, and its pull cord is just as long. The Existential Salad Spinner Agrees that he is built to wash leaves, but he Argues that washing leaves is too "de rigueur." The Existentialist Salad Spinner has appropriated its centripetal force to more personal purposes, like spinning stories, and it has no enthusiasm to the purpose that it has long abandoned.

I am familiar with this one Existential Salad Spinner in particular. His outer bowl is embellished with skull stickers and heart stickers. Anchor stickers adorn its handle, while there are variations of snake stickers and "Only God Will Judge Me" stickers on its cord. Most Existential Salad Spinners, however, limit themselves to simpler ornamentations, however, less extreme, if you may, on account of they don't have access to that many stickers on the kitchen counter. That doesn't make them any less of an Existential Salad Spinner. What sets them apart from the Essentialist Salad Spinner is this marked intention to be something else. Spinning salad isn't really its  thing. And it is not because it is lazy. Hell no, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, hell no. It has other uses for its centripetal force.

On its spare time, the Existentialist Salad Spinner absorbs the written works of Sartre and Kierkegaard, and has expressed an interest in the philosophy of Absurdism.

Blackie

My neighbor, Old Flaccid, decided to be a noisy motherfucker that morning. 

He kept shouting the same word twice per repetition, "Blackie! Blackie!," in this pattern that gave him breathing intervals. He was old, you see, and he looked like he was decaying because of his skin. It has the character of a withered scrotum. Old Flaccid needed to breathe, I guess, on account of this unproductive yelling, "Blackie! Blackie!," could be too much for his age. There is still some posture in him, however, and there is still some grit and spit and all purpose anger with each "Blackie!" that issued from that old mouth. He can't be that old. 

I will not know, for sure, just how old Old Flaccid is since I've tried my best to ignore him for the better part of a decade. I would hazard a guess and announce that he's a few years younger than the Ark of the Covenant, but I could be wrong. What I'm sure of, however, is that the calm of this wonderful 7am morning died to Old Flaccid's noisy reports. He was as loud as the loudest "I don't give a fuck" in the manner of bitter old people, and I wish he was senile so he'd shut the fuck up. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Now what you need to understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is that Blackie is this long haired cat that perched himself on top of this concrete wall that surrounded Old Flaccid's property. He's a feet away from these suspended electric cables that were interesting in what they can do to breathing things. And what you need to remember is that Blackie is brown. He's as brown as the golden feces of a one year old. He's as brown as undigested almonds. He's as brown  as the moisture on your underwear when you were praying to Jesus for dry fart a few seconds ago. I'm telling you, I have seen that cat several times before, and by cat I mean Blackie, and I've always known him to be brown. I'm looking at him in this morning sunlight, and yes, he is brown. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!" 

Blackie was ignoring Old Flaccid's authority because he had people to count. I guess that's what he's doing with the way his brown head followed everybody that passed his concrete wall. How long has he been at it? 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

Blackie's eyes pierced Old Flaccid's general direction. And they had the feline equivalent of "I wish you were senile so you'd shut the fuck up." I have seen that cat several times before, and I only liked him today. 

"Blackie! Blaaackie!"

Other People's Love Stories #3: Twice His Age

**Or Other People's Weirdness: Twice His Age

My tattoos figure largely in this story.

We've been friends for a while now, but she still refers to me as "Uy, ano!" That's "Hey you!" in receipt language. Anyway, Norma, that's my friend, Norma cooks the best torta within miles, and that's why I'm keeping her business. And I decided to eat at her stall that afternoon on account of I was too lazy to do them goddamn dishes afterwards. 

So there I was, all 5 foot 9 inches of pure fierceness with nothing but a tanktop, a short pair of brown floral shorts, and an umbrella at around ten in the morning in all this third world heat, standing before this selection of warm lunch. "Hey you!" I can see it on her teeth. Norma, that's my friend, was happy to see me. And she was with this giggling old stranger that was, by comparison, happier to see me. 

Life without Norma's torta was far from satisfying, but I had to make do with her current menu. And I have to choose with marked haste on account of Norma's other friend, the giggling old stranger, was standing next to me now. And she's moving her wrinkled hands up and down my right sleeve of tattoos. That smile never left her face. 

I hurried with my quailed egg ground beef something and a cup of rice, of course, to the closest table. Norma's friend, and that smile, sat across me, directly before me, where she decided that I can use her cheerful company. It turns out my tattoos remind me of her Facebook friend with which she shares a secret relationship with, and they've been flirting on and off four four months now, and that she's... 

"You're telling me you have a boyfriend in Facebook?"

Her forefinger stretched an inch before her puckered lips told me to keep it a secret. She says her boyfriend was "high profile," which prompts the secrecy. Shhh. I told her I will be 36 this August because she asked. And then she told me, with a wider smile, that her boyfriend is younger than I am. He's 28. And I'm nearly done with lunch. 

"You're telling me that your Facebook boyfriend is 28?"

She giggled hard and then shushed me immediately with that pointed forefinger before her puckered lips. 

"You tell me," said that look on Norma's face. 

I was paying for my lunch when I heard Norma's friend mention "when a guy likes a girl, then he should visit her," and "passports," and "travel to the Philippines," and I smiled at the three of them goodbye.

Let me make a wild guess and report that she's about 60 at the very least. She was around five feet flat, and her hair's the triumph of white over gray. Her eyes have seen decades, and her crow's feet have crow's feet. She's this ball of senile energy, and if it wasn't for her vibrance, then my money's on 62. What I do know, from the stories that issued between those jagged teeth, is that her boyfriend's 28. She has a mouthful of yellow teeth that were distributed in two disorderly rows. It reminds me of a Chinese colony without religion. And I cannot make any of this up, because if I did, it will be between a younger dude, probably a minor, and a balding horndog with a beauty parlor. 

Shit Break Three of Four

This third quarter of the year has been a bad bitch to the lady guard you're reading now, so I'm using my third quarter Shit Break.Yes, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, that's what I do, with a smile in my heart, that's what I do to buy cigarettes and pay them bills with.