So Mean

As Buddy the Maine Coon finishes my 5 AM treat of lowfat plain yogurt, the bug fuzz face exuding happiness and tinged with bits of white foam, I've finally stopped crying.

I was so mean to Fred yesterday and thank heaven, not to still be alive, but for another chance -- to not be mean, but to be funny and sweet, to make him chat about politics, feminists, his painting, and the knives he's working on.  The politics part is easy enough.  Who doesn't have a belly full of bile to unload on the subject? Listening to him rant against feminists is more difficult, the "they" really meaning "all of you all."

He decided upon painting again a few months back, and I promptly revealed my stash of supplies, from acrylics to various forms of watercolors to coarse and fine pastels, fine and finer pencils, my array of brushes.  I couldn't find my palette, the jar of gesso was dried up because I'd not secured the top properly, and there was no canvas.  Then there were the secret things -- for painting's secret needs.  I did not add those things to the box that I placed next to the stupid plastic coffee maker.

There is nothing stupid about it, beyond its stupid design and its overwhelming, condescending, stupid plasticity. That's just an example of my pointless mean spirit.

I'm mean because I can finish the sentences that end trailing in the air.  I'm mean because I read minds.

The knives?  His latest wheel-wheedle-and-deal enterprise.  Good for killing feminists.




© 2013 L. Ryan