I’m doing customer service at the bookstore now. It’s kinda horseshit but it’s kinda okay. It’s clear there are a lot of sad/mad people out there that feel completely abused and trampled upon by society (”the world” ["society"]) and feel that plunking down $$$ (more like $ or .$ even) entitles them to let out the frustration that usually manifests itself in crying jags and/or frenzied, chafing masturbation and/or bullets fired into mirrors, as sharp-tongued critiques of business practices.
But — but! — there are also weird moments of intimacy passing through the avenues of commerce. To wit, a person in Hawaii buys a book, sends me a thank-you note about the book, says, hey, you guys do super work and maybe I’ll donate my books to you when I die, though I live in Hawaii so shipping may be a problem. Well, I thought this guy was just over the moon with our wonderful book-selling, so I’m just, like, sure, you can donate your books to us when you die, shipping may be a problem, but, hey, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Then Hawaii writes back that her brain is full of tumors and she was actually supposed to be dead two years ago but she stopped chemo and started using a vaporizer and she sent along this cartoon she made:
Well, this is more than I was bargaining for. More beauty. More meaning. I’ve kept up the lines of communication. We’ve talked about her Uncle Harvey who apparently befriended some stereotypes in New York’s Chinatown. We’ve both agreed you’ve gotta stay away from that Waikiki bullshit. And of course we’ve both agreed that THC does, in fact, pass the brain/blood barrier.
To wit:
seemed like a good idea at the time