My Judgement Versus Theirs: A Battle Of Waste And Opinion In A Corrupt Society

“Age is just a number,” I say, as I place my sandwich inside it’s plastic bag. Numbers. Expiration dates. I pack my own lunch. It adds up and I save a lot.

I also risk a lot too.

But this stomach of mine is trained and conditioned like a warrior. In this one bedroom apartment, we don’t “throw things out.” And by we I mean me, but it’s a house rule, so it applies to everyone who comes through, if they ever come through.

I don’t waste food. I rather die! Bring it!

Those left over and forgottens in the far back corner of the refrigerator?

Well now I remember.

That green mold?

It hasn’t killed me yet!

That black mold?

I can dig it out. I can make things work.

I like to boast my iron gut. The exile my colleagues have given me is an honor; it’s proof of my commitment. They’re all weaker and they know it. All those who have witnessed me eat lunch have responded towards me with nothing less than anger and disdain.

And I will always proudly accept that.

It’s an expected outcome of the lifestyle. I don’t see anything wrong with what I’m doing either, so why not stand proudly for what I believe? I cannot be moved. I ate a woman’s discarded apple core once just to show people what I’m capable of.

Junk food just has a different meaning to most people than it does to me.

It don’t believe in it.

All food is good food.

Ask yourself, “How many pounds of food do I throw out a year?”

If you can’t answer honestly, it’s likely because you’re ashamed.

But unlike most society, I have no shame.

My food waste number is a negative. I go out looking for spoiled and tossed food to eat once everything at home has been finished. I pick off of tables that have yet to be bused when I go out to restaurants. Why even order an appetizer?

Aside from my convictions regarding food, and my passion for battling food waste, it’s worth mentioning that there’s at least one more thing that I’m also really really good at. And that is my job. I am really really good at my job. I can say this with total confidence, because out of all the complaints I have received over the years, not a single one has equalled a termination, yet.

I remain employed. I remain on the winning side.

When I eat in the cafeteria alone every day at work, I have a feeling of ownership and victory; the cafeteria is my conquered territory.

Everyone goes out to eat. Or eats at their desk. Or in their car.

The warrior gut continues on and does not compromise or relent! Ever! The warrior gut will conquer and conquer again!

Sometimes the challenge is mold or staleness, other times what’s most difficult to ingest is the reality of other people’s lives, and the feelings I get when I think about the contents of their kitchen waste baskets.

I know that at least I live my life with honor.

And I’m sincerely not sure if everyone is getting a way from me, or if they’re giving me my space.

But it makes everywhere I go feel just like home.

The public offers me the same kind of alone time that my apartment also does.

Ahead Of My Time

George Washington chops down a cherry tree and people still fawn over him for it centuries later.

I chopped down a utility pole and now I’m a fugitive.

I was living in my ex-girlfriend’s basement, which was great because she didn’t know that I was down there. She has a restraining order against me, and when the cops came to ask if she’d seen me recently, she aggressively assured them that I was a “stupid loser” and the “biggest mistake of [her] life.” She said if she ever saw me, she’d be certain to contact them right away.

It was an incredible performance, even if it couldn’t be considered acting (it bought me four days worth of time).

She eventually found me and made good on her promise to alert the authorities.

“Oh fuck. Fuck you. You’ve been impossible to get rid of, but not anymore. This is the end for good. Fuck your shit.”

I crawled back out the window from which I came in.

“One day I’ll be revered for this story, and one day, centuries from now, I’ll even be remembered as a legend — like George Washington,” I shouted back in through the basement window, now from the outside.

“This is so much more than some cherry tree,” I said to myself. “This story has action upon action.”

I stopped over at my friend Brad’s place to tell him about everything I was involved in. He said, “you should tell this story on a podcast.”

I said, “Hell yeah buddy! Let’s get me on a podcast!”

But neither of us had any money for microphones or equipment.

But I had an idea!

“Stealing would just be another charge if I get caught. I don’t mind.”

But Brad said he was mostly throwing out the podcast idea as a suggestion for me; he said he didn’t really want to do it himself. I told him he was wasting my time. He said he was tired, and no longer in the mood to harbor a fugitive anymore.

I said, “Brad, you’ve let me down, and now, you’re letting me down again. That’s twice within the last five minutes. When I do get the podcast equipment to tell my story, you’re going to be portrayed as an antagonist in it. You’ll be right there with the cops and the detectives, and the FBI.”

I was certain the FBI was after me by now…SWAT teams and bomb squads…packs of canines. Bounty hunters. If the news determined I’m a domestic terrorist, it could mean open season hunting for me.

“I HAVE A TARGET ON MY HEAD!”

Brad said, “You’re doing that thing again where you talk to avoid actually going. Just leave already. Damn.”

Walking down the street, I was careful not to step into any street lights. I had nowhere to go and a lot of time to think.

“What’s my story worth if I’m never able to tell it?”

“What am I worth?”

And I continued walking. I went in the direction of my purpose, and I got there; I acquired the podcast equipment necessary for me to tell my story.

And I’d like to thank you all for listening.

And I’d also like to give a giant FUCK YOU to Brad.

Fuck you Brad.

If there’s anything this adventure has taught me, it’s that I can do anything I put my mind to. And that also, in reality, George Washington was probably just some pasty, wig-headed bitch who had stomache worms.

I’ve been better than him this whole time.

And now I can live happily ever after. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to me. I am the creator of my own dreams.

Deference To No One

People say, “If you don’t like ______, we can’t be friends.”

Well I’ve had tons of friends and they all eventually left when they found out I was an imposter. Intravenous glowsticking wasn’t my scene. Swallowing shoplifted beta fish got old really quick for me too. I find it hard to believe I ever let myself snort crystal Windex.

I couldn’t keep up with all the trends the way some people were capable of.

And it became noticeable.

I once asked, “Why can’t we just hang out and talk about our interests, maybe do something constructive?”

And for questioning the activities, I was told I was acting strange.

But I don’t care anymore.

My body still glows in the dark at night and it keeps me awake. I’m tired. I just want to be involved in something authentic that isn’t so ridiculous and short lived. I can’t stop thinking about all those poor fish we ate — they could’ve been someone’s pet. And it had to be damaging to all those pet stores’ revenues too.

I no longer care about all the benefits that come with the “in” social group; the parties, the inside jokes, the general acceptance… It’s costed me a great amount of self respect, and I have no idea what my convictions are anymore.

I was running and running to keep up, but as anyone could tell, I was still far behind.

So I quit trying.

And it’s been OK so far.

I get teased a bit, but it’s bearable.

And just know…

If you’re at a party trying to enjoy yourself and hang, and someone pops the cap to a lava lamp and starts passing it around…you’re allowed to have second thoughts…and get this, you’re allowed to keep passing it as well. If you get asked to leave, you can accept the offer and you go be the real you elsewhere.

Who even knows the longterm damage of drinking from a lava lamp?

I can tell you about “glowsticking” though.

Or if you find me out at night, you can see for yourself.

It’s not hard to find me.

I’m the one who’s glowing.

Commercials #674

Tony the Tiger says, “Why do drugs when you’ve got a spoonful of sugary goodness right in front of you?”

Tony the Tiger likes to take his bowl and spoon and go into the bathroom with it alone. It usually smells like something was cooking if you go in right after him. Silly tiger, I wonder what that’s all about!

Tony the Tiger is almost always super wired and raged when he comes out of the bathroom, but at least he’s less unpleasant than he is before he goes in.

Tony the Tiger crashes out hardcore on my couch on a regular basis. My mom says, “hey look, he’s taking a catnap” and then she takes a couple of pictures of him because she thinks it’s cute…

But she doesn’t know Tony like I know Tony.

Tony the Tiger hasn’t left my house or seen the light of day in 3 weeks now.

Tony is a very difficult tiger to live with.

Dear Community

Support your local parkour kids. Let them hang up your holiday decorations or clean out your gutters or do some odd job for you — one that usually requires a ladder. Parkour kids will undoubtedly appreciate it. They sleep on fire escapes, and in the rafters of abandoned warehouses, and underneath bridge supports; it all depends on the season and weather.

Parkour kids move around a lot and are considerate of all terrains. Take caution when approaching parkour kids though, if you scare them, they might jolt back up to the top of a tree or some high fixture, and it could be a long time before they come down again. I personally have been making extensive, ongoing efforts to let them know that the floor isn’t always lava, and that us ground-dwellers aren’t all hostile. Instead of our two worlds colliding, maybe we can have better relations. Maybe we can grow to trust each other more.

Truthbomb:

I saw a man grab his nutsack at a red light the other day. He put his car in park, pointed me out, and then thrusted his hips up so I can see him grab his nutsack in the window.

His actual nutsack.

He had it out.

I’m too old now. I have a wife and kids and a job, a good job, but I wish more than anything that I was a parkour kid. I’m always looking up and looking around for them. They live life like it’s always top bunk. Everyday. I wish that I could climb up and escape with them.

Final Message/Closing Remarks:

Us ground-dwellers aren’t all hostile. What do I care if someone risks death to scale the side of an office building? I’m not a security guard and roof hopping is a thrill to watch. I could never be a parkour kid now and chances are, you’d never have the guts to be one either.

That’s why I choose to support them. And you should too.

If you’re a parkour kid and you’re reading this, I respect you.

Maybe a couple of you can come over and help me hang up a tire swing from the tree in my backyard.

I think it’d be great to get together and officially meet.

–A Local Father

A Dreamer’s Tale

Tell yourself, “This world needs me. I am smart and capable of so much. Nobody but me has my unique ideas. Without me, there’d be a whole universe missing out on what it is that I have to offer.”

And then go make something.

Today’s genius idea: Beefwings

I took some old chicken wing bones out of the trash, rinsed them, and mushed seasoned ground beef into them, and once they’re done in the oven, I’m gonna serve them up to friends.

As great as it is to take risks and experiment, I think it’s equally as great to share as well. You’ll find that people can be appreciative of your creations. Not always, but slightly more than never they are.

Sometimes the response is, “Have I been poisoned? Am I going to die?”

But sometimes it isn’t.

A little disclosure:

I don’t know for certain that everything is going to be fine; you should induce vomiting if you feel you should. It happens all the time. The panicky, WTF response that is.

I cannot be offended. I am willing to admit to my mistakes and learn from them. I am always looking to go forward, and that requires an honest self assessment.

After what happened last summer with the cake I baked, I discovered that I shouldn’t use collected rain water as an ingrediant. The “natural, earthy” taste that I was aiming for, turned out to be a major misjudgement.

Thank God everyone made a full recovery.

I will continue to learn and improve.

Cooking is my passion.

Coffee Shop Chaos: The Story of What Was Almost, Almost a Riot

“Hey there Mr. Funny Man, Mr. I-Can-Do-It-All, Mr. Trying To Steal Everyone’s Girlfriend. Nice acoustic set, except for the fact that your music is sad and whiny and you’re a fool and you’re not gonna steal my girlfriend. I came here to make sure of that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just here to play music…or at least that’s what I think I’m here for,” answered back the acoustic performer, amused by himself with a cool, confident smile, looking around at all the faces gazing towards him.

A large amount of those in attendance were young, college-aged girls; undergrads. Many were seated around him on the floor, staring up at him dreamily, as if he were a folk hero. Just about all of them giggled whenever he spoke.

“I know what you’re doing. And that “funny” anecdote you told earlier wasn’t even funny at all. There was nothing ironic about what you said. You drove into town and saw a sign and you knew you were here. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry that upset you, I’ll cons–”

“Yeah!” shouted another man, standing up in the back opposite of the room. “I’m gonna have to agree with him.”

“You got your faded jeans and your loafers and you think you’re so deep. It’s nauseating.”

“Boooo!” most of the female audience members shouted in the direction of both hecklers.

“Just get out.”

“Yeah, get out!”

“Well I apologize for–”

“You asked the barrista to “fetch” you a glass of water and so far you’ve only taken one sip,” shouted another heckler, raising their voice a bit louder with every word to overpower the returning boos.

Boos were shouted in all directions. There was no music. There was no order. There was no way he could continue performing until things had settled down.

“Hey hey hey,” the performer said into the microphone. “If you don’t like me or my music, then why not just leave? No one’s keeping you here.”

There was more noise from the crowd. Some people clapped in agreement with the performer, others answered back with curses.

“Awwww piss off!”

“Yeah. Screw you, man. You get out of here! Don’t tell me to leave!”

The room was hostile and in a complete stir. There was no manager or anyone who could mitigate the commotion. One man in the back of the room took off his shirt. He immediately put it back on.

“I’m OK.”

A gentleman, older than most members of the crowd, who was sitting quietly, raised his hand to say something. He looked as though he could be a professor at a nearby university.

“Yes. Hey everyone, everyone let’s hear what this man has to say. Ok? And then can I get back to the music, please?”

“No!”

The older gentleman spoke,”I have perfect pitch and the break you took earlier to tune your guitar was completely unnecessary.”

“Yeah!” a bunch of men in the crowd cheered.

“You dropped your low E just so you could raise it back up again, and tell another one of your ridiculous, unironic stories in the process,” he said, looking back to the first heckler who had pointed out the lack of irony in the performer’s stories; giving his endorsement to the younger man’s statement.

“I came in for a relaxing afternoon cup of tea, and what I’m witnessing here is sickening.”

There were more boos from the men and even more boos in response from the defending women.

Admist all the chaos and disruption, one young woman spoke up.

“You told me to come here and see your show. You said that you would really really like for me to hear you play when we met earlier out on the street. You said I should stick around and hang out afterwards. How many other girls did you tell that to?” she said, sounding upset.

“He said that same thing me!”

“And me.”

“I saw this jerk walking around all over town with his guitar earlier today. What did no one have a puppy for you to borrow as well?” a man shouted.

“I came to play music. This is a paid gig. There is no greater conspiracy happening,” the performer responded indignantly.

There were more boos. Just about all boos. Even most the women now. If anyone was still left on his side, they weren’t letting it be known.

“Is everyone in this town crazy? Why is everyone such a fucking asshole?”

“Booooooo!”

“See, he’s not that deep! He’s not the caring sensitive type. He’s a phoney!”

“Booooo!”

“Awww fuck you. Fuck all of you,” he said, placing his guitar back in it’s case. Someone pelted him in the ribs with a scone; there was no telling who threw it at this point.

He grabbed the mic stand and amp with his other hand and walked towards the exit, towards the parking lot with cables dragging the whole way there. He was in a hurry to get out.

He received constant harassment the entire trip over.

Standing at his station wagon, he checked over to make sure he had everything.

“The tuner!” he said out loud to himself.

He thought to go back in and grab it, but when he turned to look back, there were dozens of faces looking out at him angrily from the window; many giving him the finger.

“Forget it,” he said, opening the door and climbing into the driver’s seat.

As he rolled out the parking lot, the crowd poured out to cheer his departure.

He looked in the rear view window, and returned the finger for everyone.

“Back at you,” he said to himself.

It was another town to cross off his list.

He was leaving definitely.