Oh, My God

by Tom Lee

I have a fear of small children. It’s not that they are possibly the most featured scary being in horror movies over the past 30 years. And it’s not that they always find a way to stare at you uncomfortably. And it’s not that they think it’s okay to cling on to you in whatever way they find possible. It’s that they defecate upon themselves, and never seem to notice that a two inch blood encrusted booger is gently hanging from their small left nostril. I enjoy hanging out with my friends, mainly because they have control of whether they want to go to the bathroom or not. Being able to achieve a state of such consistency around you and your friends is a very comforting thing. So no one is randomly shitting themselves here and there.

I always love a good stir up, but when that stir up ends in wet farts of turd sludge, I end up wishing I had stuck to routine. Now you may ask me: Tom, when is it that you are even hanging out with these kids? What are you doing around them? I don’t love kids, I don’t want kids, I don’t feel like I’m mature when dealing with kids. It’s because I needed money, and the summer was the perfect time to get the perfect job. A few hours a day in the sun, teaching kids how to swim. Sounded amazing, sounded like the easiest job in the world. 

I was wrong. You are surrounded by spit and pee and boogers. I swear I felt several different temperature changes in under five minutes during one session. Sessions are thirty minutes long. Sessions last from nine thirty to three thirty. That’s six different five minute intervals of varying water temperatures over five hours. We got a half hour lunch break from twelve to twelve thirty. I normally didn’t have a lunch. I woke up too quickly and too hung over to pack a lunch, even think about eating food, even think about getting in a sixty five degree water pool at nine in the morning to teach five to seven little pooping, peeing, burping, spitting kids how to hold a kick board properly and blow nose bubbles at the same time without choking on as much water as they could possibly swallow.

I walk into the locker room one day to shower and change, being that it’s the end of the day, and in there already is the last group changing. Now, there are three counselors, who’s job it is to keep the kids under control. I was lucky enough to walk in on a particular counselor who felt he understood the concept called humor. Being that he felt he understood this concept called humor, he then began to proceed to be humorous, or as many would like to call it, funny. He asked his kids, all boys, what the first rule of the locker room was: “No Talking.” Okay, that’s perfectly reasonable, talking can distract many people, especially children, who are rumored to have shorter attention spans, but I believe it’s that they don’t understand yet that people pretend to each other that they give a fuck and listen. But that’s not the point. So I nod my head and continue to the shower, listening along as the counselor joyfully asks the kids “What is the second rule of the locker room?”, which the kids reply to heartily with a “No standing around.” Very acceptable, a rule that enforces constant progression. I nodded approvingly. And then the third rule comes. With a large grin on his face, this counselor asks “What is the third rule of the locker room?” And the kids reply: “Don’t play with each others weenies.”

I’ve had to walk and bike for most of my life, and I’ve added heavily to the foot traffic of the bay area. When walking I’ve seen many different situations occurring, and seen many different sets of scenery. Forms and forms of conversations and gestures and vulgarity. There’s always some question being thrown your way as you walk, “where is University?”, “how do I get to the Home Town Buffet?”, or “do you have any change to spare?”. But the one question I have been has stuck with answering is “You need trees’?”

I pissed me self in fourth grade. I sharted junior year. I once vomited upside down into my own hair. What the fuck.

It’s not funny. Big booties, big boobies. That’s all a normal guy thinks about. Yeah, some may read books, and some may take philosophy class. And yeah some are professors. And some critique the model male of our male-dominated society. You know, the fucking Patriarchal shit. Nature vs Nurture. Nature is sex, nurture is cuddles. Drink alcohol and you don’t need introductions. Smoke weed and sex feels great. Something you think couldn't feel better feels ten times that. Smoke too much weed and you’re dry all over. Ass or tits. Who’s a tits man, who’s a ass man. It’s risky to be either, why leave things unbalanced, you want the whole woman. And if you think about it, our fantasies and our desires are too simple. A woman has complete and utter control in the situation, if she’s powerful and understands her sexuality as a power. Some may not agree, but let’s date back to prehistory. Let’s think back past christianity. Many cultures were matriarchally-based. Women were the leaders, women held the power. And what’s a powerful man to a powerful woman. 

I once met a couple of two very powerful people. This man and woman were both into their late fifties. Yet they still acted like eighteen year olds. Teenagers getting to feel skin they had never felt before. It was uncomfortable. Two old people grabbing and touching and joking. Here I am trying to make food and there they are talking about penis size. When did I become the mature one? Oh my gosh you guys, don’t be so vulgar. Me telling someone to not be vulgar. So the point is sexuality drives so many things, and when that drive is lost, you’re left very little. Lot’s of time to educate yourself, become knowledgeable and wise, and come to understand the world and it’s secrets and mysteries and questions. You get to pour through books and reflect and learn the lessons of life and become a professor. 

All that and more. You never get distracted, and your thoughts and decisions are of your own, for your own desires of long lasting happiness and understanding. 

No. If there’s one thing philosophy as taught me, is that too much thinking and reflecting and analyzing gets you back to square one. Life being lived within society is all a construct, set up to give meaning to what we’re surrounded by. All of us applying a set of values and morals and ethics that create a construct and perspective with which we can then live through. All things external are a projection. Avoiding it brings you deeper in, fighting it aggravates you more than succumbing to it. It’s a battle of power. Power is lost when you think too much, and power is lost when you think too little. This powerful couple aforementioned had it figured out. God damn. They know what we don’t. I can’t write about it, because I don’t know what I’d be writing about. It’s a lack of obligation. Complete spontaneity and complete routine mixed together. Looking at everything with the right construct in mind, to achieve full happiness of the situation. The long run and the short run, running together. Basically it’s a balance. A woman with both the bosom and the booty. Life’s a woman, and those who can’t sweet talk her don’t get none. Thus I am a virgin, and life is one of the finest girls I’ve ever seen, and she’s there taunting me with sweet nothings. Damn. That’s all you can say. Damn. Just “God damn” as she walks by, smirking, pretending like she doesn’t know. Might as well become a professor.

Claire Huxtable and Denise Huxtable. So fine. 

I lost my gum once.

I get made fun of a lot. Like, a lot. I’d say by mostly everyone I know. I’m not sure why it is. I’ll probably get made fun of for this if anyone reads it. I could just write like this for six pages and people would be laughing. Not at what I say, but at me trying to do or write anything. But I’m giving myself too much credit. I’m not that easy to make fun of...

Yeah, I could be a little insane, I’m almost sure they turn up the volume on commercials.  I’ve had outbursts of anger, the other day I tossed a pillow lightly towards my wall. I’ve acted irrational, I bought something from easy stop once. I bottle shit up. There are a bunch of bottles in my room with different objects in them.

My biggest failure is destroying my memory enough so that I can’t remember anything as easily anymore. Many moments of clarity and joy, sadness and confusion, hilarity and absurdity, have all slipped past my mind without registering. Thus I don’t have many stories to tell. What humor isn’t story-telling in one form or the other. My biggest mistake is fearing what would be thought of me if I acted as myself. You’re left with nothing. I’ve done fucked up things in my life. I wrote this “story”. A cynic is strongest in this world, because they don’t take a stance on anything, because they only speak to critique and object to. It’s funny. You know, like ha ha funny. It’s funny that the only freedom and happiness you understand is not your own. It’s funny that comedy and laughter is an escape from tragedy and sorrow. It’s funny that everyone is terrified. The biggest joke of life is that it’s all a joke. I could be wrong.