I"M IN TEH WAINTING ROOM RA RA RA RA RA RAAAAA

(written a few days ago at the car place. not directly fatherhood-related.)

Waiting to get the car fixed. I’ve got burnt drip coffee with powder creamer to keep me awake. Should be a few hours. No immediate internet that I can connect to. Time to type.

Reading some older material that I wrote, stored on my computer, wasting miniscule hard drive space, I realize that as little as a few years ago I was a good deal less mature than I am now. I used stupid flair-type writing devices like oDdLy SpAceD CapITol letters. The style of my old writings is immature. Somehow I don’t know how anyone less than 23 can even get along in college. I don’t know how I ever did. Teenagers and young 20-somethings possess a sort of blank survival skill. A blind will to get along in the world, and to jump through hoops without comprehending the vast machinations that make up those hoops.

Example. I was writing for publications. Sometimes I wrote incriminating, accusatory articles. (I’m watching my accusatory nature now that I’ve been fired for it) I used empty arguments to support my hastily-made points. I suppose this is the nature of youthful writing: to not fully see the weight of the very concepts one is writing of. The purpose of youthful writing is, to the youthful writer, not towards social change, but of catharsis. Of letting out demons. Of self satisfaction. Of feeling alive. Of the selfishness that Rand spoke so highly of. It’s very important from a psychological perspective, but other readers gain nothing.

When one gets older, it’s time, as my dad says, to sit at the grown-up table and stop acting like a kid. He says even 40-year-olds tend to hang on to that kind of outlook and those childish tendencies. Humans really are slow to learn. By learning, I don’t mean the stark memorization of facts, but of understanding how the human condition relates to what is actually happening. True learning is a time-intensive process. It cannot happen quickly. Many, many times do I need to learn the same lessons in order to stop making the same mistakes.

What am I writing this for. I’m imagining myself as Camus, writing what he feels, creating what people call existentialism just by purging his thoughts onto paper. I am not a philosopher. I am a guitarist. I am a songsmith. Perception of sound is my strong point; perception of perception is my weak one.

A woman in a black dress and heels and really yellow curled hair just walked by very slowly. She could be in her 50s or 60s. She is tall. A waft of perfume followed her. She struck me. I only saw the back of her. She walked stiffly, as if she might fall apart at the slightest bump, as if she was hastily glued together.

When I was talking to a man named Shelton, a consultant here, I caught a glimpse of a bit of flirting between another consultant named Faustina and a customer. Both middle aged. Both cute. Faustina is tall and the woman is short. They’re both standing with a little counter-desk between them. They’re not that far apart. In fact they’re standing comfortably close to, and facing, one another.

Her head is down and she’s signing some paper on a clipboard. He’s standing above her, looking down. He wears a contented, subtly excited smile. He’s a calm guy, I can tell, but I could also tell he was horny. I mean, you’re horny when you’re flirting, right? Everybody gets this way. It’s exciting to flirt. This is not me incriminating anyone. The sight was rather attractive.

As she’s signing, she distractedly says, “My daughter needs … a ride to [somewhere].”

Faustina just continues looking at her. She turns her face up to him, smiling at his lack of response. They both know his silence, coupled with the smile, is a way of saying, 'Yes, that is procedure. And you are right to ask, but I'm gonna make you ask me again so I can hear your voice more.'

They're both still smiling. She looks up at him and says, “Is that gonna be okay?”

“Hm?” He's loving this.

“Is that gonna be okay?”

“Well, sure. Yeah.” They’re both smiling at each other, looking at each other's faces. Her eyes have makeup on them and she looks really pretty in a plain, modern mom way. Straight, dishwater blonde hair with blonde highlights down to her shoulders. Her face was shining, as was his. It was subtle flirting. It was innocent. It was beautiful. “Yeah, that’s gonna be okay,” Faustina says.

She turns her head back down, still smiling. Writes something or other on the paper. That was the end of what I saw of it. I had to turn back to my man Shelton to continue our business transaction.

80s movies contain too much sexism.

I might possibly work for Teal at Todd’s daycare tomorrow. From 8 to 4. I’ll have been a busy bee. Just called Megan. She’s at home with the girls, vacuuming. Freaking Lucy out. It’s good for her.

I think it’s time to take a walk and call Ian.

(This is where the narrative ends. I did end up working for Todd's daycare. It was awesome.)