I am spending the weekend at the Oregon Coast with my friend, C. C and I used to date and were in love... he broke my heart out of stupidity and I learned to value myself enough to not expect anything from him, so now we get along great... I haven't met anybody else, so we are doing mushrooms at the coast. I am not on mushrooms, but he is playing Mario Bros on Nintendo... what else are you going to do when it's gorgeous outside and there is beer in the fridge at three in the afternoon. He just grabbed a drink, the beer is peeking over my computer, in between C and I- as usual!
Last night we walked into "town" just to laugh at a town smaller than the expansive presence that we are. We were the ones driving an hour and a half to get here. Who spends that much effort to enjoy and simultaneously break something down? Parents, the Government and Us, I guess.
I wrote an earlier blog talking about how I made love to potatoes... then I cut it, thinking I would write something more relevant to the times, but... I am only writing right now as an exercise, not because I'm inspired. It's the same reason I have sex, really.
Not really. The reason I actually have sex is to fake some sense of authenticity between myself and whoever I'm seeing at the time. Pumping and grinding to feel something in this void, this sea of potatoes; fingerling potatoes.
I love potatoes, but our relationship makes me fat. Potatoes don't break my heart, which is a nice respite from fellows I have dated in the past- the drinkers. The only difference is that potatoes can't drive- at least that's what the officer said that one time I got pulled over for driving under the influence and insisted my "friend" would take it from here. He let me know the towns' traffic laws about legumes and such and I let him know that the 50's were so last year- I could love whomever I choose and he should drive because I'm a *hiccup* lady.
There it is, much needed potato commentary.
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