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Here’s what happens. We strike it, but it doesn’t die. It crowned from the blackness of suburbia like a king, hunted by asphalt and high beam lights. Night usurped by day. Flashes of antiqued green. Down goes Frazier. Engines revved for the K.O. That was any scenario. But this is mine.
My ideal male was small town and scratched off the letters on the back on his Toyota pickup truck so it just said “YO.” But those guys didn’t like me — and this one did. Quick to catch-on to JAP boy talk, I name-dropped the only thing I had (“Rad, I know the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies”) despite feeling embarrassed.
Meaning: go to work in order to obtain USD currency, as manifested abstractly via bi-weekly direct deposits into my checking account—cash I never actually touch or feel, but only see deplete when I pay my mortgage, groceries, taxes, and occasional hookers. And come back blue. Return home every day from work chronically depressed because I am stuck in this mid-30s life defined by societal expectations, financial fear, acute loneliness, spiritual resignation, and emotional denial.