Post-graduation from the University of Oregon, Abby Kuhn’s series walks us through her life after college.
Here comes my favorite crystal-toting, gluten free set of married numb nuts. I love them. They talk with that intelligent drawls that is custom of condescending Californians. They tell me their “fave” Chinese restaurant is P.F. Changs. This means they probably think Foster’s really is Australian for beer. Their Zen lifestyle appears to have been bought out of a strip mall. A Claire’s was probably settled nicely near their dojo, but they buy a lot of cat shit so I have to just grin and bear it while I throw in free tissue paper and a pre-cut ribbon into their gift bag.
They languidly dissipate leaving an invisible trail of organic dollar signs and I’m left with my bio on brothels. My boss told me that my smut should be left at home, but I mentally remind her that my smut never stops. She’s married, what do I tell her? I still have sex? She’d snot sex out of her granny panties and into her sweater set. No can do, I adore shock-value, but even I have a sliver of mercy lining the empty space where my soul should be found. I’d probably lose my “job”
For the time being I have 9.5 hours left in my day and my hair is already de-poofing. I quickly lock the only valuable thing on this tin can (the laptop), in the super secure foil box and sprint to my favorite bathroom stall. I only use one stall, if it’s occupied I’ll wait, even if all other vestibules of shit are free I’ll wait. I come off as a nut-job both in appearance and practice. I like to really be honestly clear with people … unless I’m lying. The ratio of truth to farce is about 20/80 and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
If I told people everything that happened in my life I’d be exiled and revered as the biggest loon of all time. Think Adrien Brody in “The Village.” I’d end up in a hole skewered to death by sharp sticks. Then again, to die a Brody death would be my honor. Those of you who know me know how I love a good schnoz on a man.