The Art of Penmanship (or Microchips and Bullchips)

The microchip has reduced me to a quivering little simp unable to read my own handwriting because very few things are written anymore since it’s all gone digital. That calligraphy lesson when I was a kid still sticks with me and I know how to scratch out a pretty nice lower case “a” but that’s about it. So if I’m not inputting or texting I can’t decipher whatever scratchy symbol my awful penmanship happened to produce.

The place where I used  to work had an old-timey cash register that pings and dings and has non-LCD lights and each time the keys are plunked, wet ink is typed onto tape that winds around a spool for evidence and reference. This old register weighs about 100 pounds purely of solid state machinery that chugs on elbow grease and constant commerce.

People who work in places that sell goods or services should know the prices of their product but chips in computers have made store clerks and bartenders ignorant and lazy. Convenience is a strange animal to pursue because the animal has no idea what costs what. Now this particular animal rapidly taps a touchscreen like a musician or savant.

Unrelated: I’ll tell you what’s convenient, a bullwhip hanging from my hip for whenever I see injustice occur at about 8 feet away.


Felix Domesticus

Miss my damn cat. This cat was was raised by two full grown dogs and had the cool mindset of a cat but the personality and need for humans like a dog. She had a stub tail so her name was Minus, she was a runt and found in an alley as a kitten but wound up having a great life for a random animal. She let you scratch her belly and she’d almost fetch. She’d bark with a meow and hold her own with the big neighborhood felines, she’d wallow in your lap and remind you that even if you hated cats, she was cooler than any other you’d ever known.

How The World Becomes A Story

Hair wrapped like listless vines around fists that dress this night, a touch divine on a pillowtop with skin on top and radiators clanging like train cars… 

Skin like hers is wicked, soft, just want to tear her legs open but make a quiet entrance, put my mouth on hers and taste every word that comes from her breath, finally, a kiss. Devouring the heat like a hungry child chasing an unknown sweetness, nothing so soft and warm ever compared to that look, how hands fit inside each other with silly natural grace, nothing so soft and warm ever distracted her eyes, with looks and lips like playful barbs on beautiful beds, so soft and warm like arms of potent and enveloping reason, nothing I’ve ever felt was as quite as raw and delicate as those moments. No memory or experience can really prepare a smitten boy for the taste of a raucous and revered lover.

More classy than brassy and more sassy than Sally from the Valley.