Prophetic

Sometimes, back from journeys of the night, I discover spirals of wisdom scratched inside my notebook; driven into the pages, like some ancient spiritual epiphany.
and sometimes not... usually not. Which is a shame, because I rely almost entirely on my notebook to create a realistic framework here. And I rely on it in this way, because I have a shitty memory. No, this is not an alcohol related problem, thanks for the concern, I just don't have room in my head for storing information about the past. So really I could have been anything before this moment. A prophet, an evangelist, or a belligerent dickhead.

According to my elitist housemate I'm a belligerent dickhead.
"I'm not a belligerent... wait, let's ask her. Mamn?"
A girl wearing a shirt with the words, "I heart nerds" was passing by us, and I decided to bring her in on our lighthearted conversation. She was about 25. I had no idea why I was calling her "Mamn."

"Mamn, do you think I'm a belligerent dickhead? My friend thinks I'm a belligerent dickhead."
"I don't know." Her eyes seemed to have an opinion, probably something hostile, but they remained firmly within her eye sockets. Silent.
"Well, how bout based on first impressions?" I tried to turn it into less of an accusatory question, maybe seg-way into more comfortable grounds, but she looked eager to escape.
"I don't know," she repeated coldly. I had a feeling I didn't want to know either, and was eager to let her to escape.
"Well thanks for your input anyway," I said to her retreating figure. I cringed over at Elitist and passed my index finger across my neck, indicating a disastrous interaction akin to death. This seemed to be an agreeable analysis of the situation.
"Well, she wasn't wearing an I love Belligerent Dickheads t-shirt."

Somewhere in the heart of whatever state they make these flirtatious shirts, stands a warehouse full of cotton tops with phrases like "I love jocks," "I love manipulative narcissists," and "I love aggressive socio-paths" printed across the front. And there they will sit. For about 5 or 6 years until honesty suddenly becomes fashionable.

An excited looking girl standing outside Transit on Saturday night was obviously already off and running with the honesty fashion trend. "I owe my boyfriend 25 blowjobs!" She announced with appropriate bravado.
"So that's the currency of choice in the land you're from? How do I get there?"
She laughed, and I pondered the value of material goods measured in terms of fellatio and the subsequent difficulty of making a Mastercard commercial in such an atmosphere.

Shiny T-shirt: 5 blow jobs.
4 shots of yager: 8 blow jobs.
Entrance to the best club in the city: 12 blowjobs.
Love at first sight... Many, many blowjobs. (Nothing is priceless here.)

I wonder what the exchange rate would be. In any case there would be a booming tourist industry. Although travelers had better hope that they have plenty of goods to offer, otherwise they might never see their beloved gag reflex again. But hey, what happens in Blowjob land, stays in Blowjob land.

I somewhat regret the lewd turn this post has taken, but given that it started out with "Tina Turner is a God. Respect." I don't think there was anywhere to go but down, in terms of life shattering insight.

I will accept no responsibility for the consequences inherent in accepting Tina Turner as your personal lord and savior. I'm as surprised as you are.

Chill.
- Seg