ever get the feeling that you’re forgetting how to spell?
or read?
happens to me more than i’m comfortable admitting. so- not that often. ever had one of your favorite restaurants ruined by a ghost? i have. i used to dig this one bbq place. their mac n cheese was killer, but iller. and one time, i took this dude i was seeing that was from out of town there for dinner. we locked our lover eyes over beef ribs and talked about life for a few hours-made a memory. a few weeks later, i found out that that was just how he looked at ladies. even ladies with front bum and bad eyeliner. i haven’t been back to that spot to this day. i’ve passed by, probably 6 hundred times and the thought of the taste of the tangy sauce is stored right next to the thought of the taste of bullshit and betrayal. and that shit’s not delicious. and that is how a ghost ruined a restaurant for me.
on that note. i want to talk about memories. and ghosts. and feelings. some more. i’ve been talking about feelings a lot lately because it’s vagina season. meaning it’s the holidays and most vaginae are in full bloom (we’ll pretend that’s a joke you don’t get- but fyi, doesn’t make any sense to me at all, just typed it and thought better of deleting, aight). so yeah, it’s the holidays, and you’re supposed to be kicking it with your family and your wife and your newborn baby jesus, and your farm animal pets. which include lambs (definitely) and goats (most likely). and you’re supposed to be filled with cheer, cause it’s that time of year, and you’re supposed to be spending and giving, and overeating, and have red cheeks. well. i’ve always got red cheeks. however, i’m not very good at presents (if you’re bored sometime ask harls about the “i heart snow” hat – it was a WIN), and i over-spend and gluttonize all year long (it’s part of being “generation Q” – the generation raised on and inspired by Dave Matthew’s 1999 banger “Too Much”). but christmastime (gentile, guilty.) is jam motherfucking packed with memory ghosts. you smell gingerbread and you’re like wholllllly fuck i just got a bible for christmas. you taste eggnog and you’re like seriously, how did those wooden reindeer get on the porch without anyone leaving, the room? including uncle david? seriously, it’s been 22 years and you can tell us. you know? you’re all-out infiltrated by a shitstorm of awkward lifelegends and traditions that are yours. stories that you’ve lived, and re-lived, and talked about in therapy. and then they want you to sing.
and i’m just like. i know we’re on the west coast. i know we’re in california. but please
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
or at least explain the patches of snow riddled throughout the streets of SOMA. because i don’t actually believe in ghosts.
