I have been taking my dog on these epic walks since operation freedom started.
Today we strolled about the entire east-side and parts of Pawtucket.
It was a beautiful day and we had almost no humidity, so judging by the amount of perspiration coming off my body (albeit scented like lavender and dreams), it only goes to prove that the route I chose was, shall we say, lengthy.
I had to stop at a friend's to grab a water bottle with which I shared with my huffy pooch.
I mean I shared the water, not the bottle.
Eeeew, cooties!
So, I am walking around and just not at all cute. I'm dehydrated, sweaty, and probably more than a little red when you factor in the recent lobstering my skin got at the beach. So why the fuck are you dudes honking at me?
I got honked at three times today!
That shit is startling!
I mean, the main reason I go on walks or engage in intentional bouts of exercise and/or activity is because I am seeking peace of mind through endorphins.
I'm unemployed!
I can't afford your fancy crack cocaine!
So when I am pondering some pretty deep stuff, the last thing I need is for some knucklehead in a Suburban Assault Vehicle honking at me while I am in my Zen place.
What do you think this is going to accomplish?
Ooh, I'm gonna' unravel my sweaty pony-tail, turn my head ever so coquettishly, lick the salt off my upper lip, give a wink, and ask for a ride? I was just waiting until the right guy came along and blared his car horn at me! Take me, I'm yours!
I am most mystified why the sight of me has gotten you so intrigued that you even bothered to stoop to such a flagrant display of inanity.
I don't have a pleasant look on my face. I am wearing a pair of shell-toes I have had since I was fifteen.
I swear to god, I still have the bored musings I wrote on the side of the sole when I was suffering through Ethics class.
Ya' know...school sux!...random lyrics to some hip-hop song, a hieroglyphics symbol...the usual.
Point is, it seems my feet have grown exponentially in comparison to my stature, as I have absolutely no toe-room left and I am walking up-hill. I am in pain.
I am so NOT gellin'.
I look down to make certain the barn-door's not open.
Shit's as closed as Rush Limbaugh's mind.
Then, I take a look further north...nope! No nipplage. It's a hot day.
And I'm wearing a black shirt that's rather billowy. It's not like anybody was able to catch wind of the majesty going on beneath my Van Halen tee. You wish!
So what is it?
Thing is, if I wanted to get objective, I could say, "A dude is a dude is a dude" and write it off as just something that women, regardless of how un-provocatively they are dressed, have to deal with because men are just silly creatures ruled by the planet penis (that's the second one from the sun, just a few rungs down from your anus---or as those "expert astronomer" types like to call it---Uranus...I prefer the ultra-scientific classification system as popularized by Mr.Archibald Beavis and Sir Linus Butthead).
But I know that's not the case.
Some men are just eunuchs who can only be forward when they are driving a moving vehicle that has the potential of outrunning me.
I mean I'm sure if the offender is left without a quick response he can always blame it on his sweet, sweet, ride's acceleration and not the fact that he is a total sac-less wonder.
I had a beautiful moment last year.
I was walking down the street when this carload full of ass-hats started harassing me.
They sped up, thinking that they had fled the scene of the crime.
Then they hit a red light just as I caught up to them.
I, being the quasi-sociologist and truth-seeker that I am, walked right up to their car and asked, "What the fuck was that about? Do you have something you want to tell me?"
I haven't seen more pussies with an urge to piddle since before my childhood kittens got spayed.
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