The Poet Laureate of the common man. Read his book "Delusive Moments," then you will discover the joy of crying, laughing, and having a mental breakdown simultaneously. This is a good thing. Trust whatever you find on the internet. Gospel.
I like to think back fondly upon those times
When grass stains were the style and
‘Fuck’ and ‘Shit’ were battling it out for coolest cuss words
"It’s all about setting low expectations if you want your mediocrity to be acceptable."
“Mom, Dad, is it true? Did Mexican’s kill Davy Crockett?” four year old me asked.
“Yes,” my dad said before he went on to clarify that the movie leaves out a bunch of political and societal implications and ramifications. All I ever heard or understood was that Mexicans killed Davy Crockett. Davy ‘King of the wild frontier’ Crockett, my hero, slain by Mexicans—that’s all I heard. That was all that mattered.
But damn, this is the kinda dirty that I’m not sure I like, but makes me smirk nonetheless. I guess this is the kind of satisfaction that a dirty old man like me should look forward to. Imagine what it’ll be like when I’m actually an old man and not just dirty. Damn it, St. Bukowski, you’ll have nothing on me in terms of old man dirtiness, though you’ll more than likely have me beat in terms of literary success and acceptance.
Charles Bukowski, my patron saint.
I may not have been gallant, or for that matter even decent. But as I walked away in the whirling humidity of the summer airs during the crepuscular hours, my heightened level of inebriation consoled and assured me that I was nothing short of perfect. Another sterling edition of a “Delusive Moment.“
Above all that’s obvious, the thing that gets me is, he wore the best and biggest smile as he made, damn right forced me to splay the best grin against any grain of pain I felt. Born were the most earnest and loudest laughs. All the applause fell short. Even coupled with the adoration, it couldn’t comfort the torment of his being. The Divine Comedian stopped short and left us all wanting, daring us all with a weary and hairy grin—to seize the day and escape from the spell.
Being in the dating market when you’re in your thirties can be broken into a few divisions. As with most life decisions, lots of things need to be assumed. Dealing with dating someone that is thirty plus deserves exponential assumption prowess. For starters, they’re either divorced or single for a variety of reasons that hinder their marketability—like psychotic tendencies, chemical dependency issues, egomaniacal leanings, intimacy issues, daddy/mommy issues, issues, issues, issues, there’s always some damn fine reason this person hasn’t been snatched up yet. What you want to look for is someone with the, ‘Right’ set of issues for you. It’s not ‘Settling,’ so much as it is ‘meshing.’ You might find that someone special who just so happens to be in their thirties and though they have intimacy issues, they are also a successful-functional alcoholic and anything goes when they’ve been drinking. We call that looking at the brightside of things, you shouldn’t need to change them to love them, just catch them with the right issues and at the right part of a bender. What’s that, you say they’re divorced? I say give it a go. Marriage is like buying a house or parachuting, I’d rather go into it with someone that has done it before and knows what the hell they’re doing. I apply a similar logic in terms the vetting of a sexual partner. As can be expected, sometimes you luck out and find a divorcee with a nice portfolio of issues that really mesh well with your issues. Let’s say you find this divorcee who happens to be addicted to all the same drugs as you—so you can share, they also hate their parents and believe their siblings are backstabbing snobs, and though they are incredibly selfish, you are a masochistic altruist and it really makes you happy to attempt to please this insatiable lover. In conclusion, dating in your thirties can be challenging and rewarding. To survive, a person must be optimistic as they plow through the divisions in search for the one—with the right issues. Someone can hate something in someone that another person can come along and love. We all deserve to find someone who loves us for all our issues, our quirks, our faults, our follies, our fallacy (and phallus—one in the same for many), and since we’ve gotten to our thirties and are single, we are looking for a candidate for a partner that we agree with on all the issues.
Even the best of friends need breaks from each other. It is a natural and healthy thing to get that space, gain some perspective, and finally arrive to truly miss them for qualitative and quantitative reasons (and in the case of a sexual partner, the sex, damnit the sex). Without a break in time together, there is no personal identity, and there’s nothing to share. It must be concluded that it is in fact our time apart which brings us closer. We are physiologically and psychologically this way with ourselves even. By this I mean that sleep, and to that extent, dreams are a break for us from us. An exodus by us, away from this that is, we. What is sleep but a break, an escape, or freedom from ourselves? When we don’t get sleep, we get cranky, we are not ourselves, and we lose interest in things the usual joys. When we don’t sleep, we don’t like things. We need that break from ourselves. Why do people drink, or do drugs, or exercise, go on vacation, find religion, or find addiction? People need breaks, time apart, a vacation from reality however it comes. That time apart can be from others, themselves, or perfect storm like, from both. We simply need time apart and to ‘sleep on it’ in order to properly appreciate what brings us together.