Okay? Okay

A Dog With Stick Arms Walking

I’m vaguely uncomfortable all the time. I’m vaguely uncomfortable going to the restaurant with my brother, vaguely uncomfortable when he talks to me, vaguely uncomfortable when we park the car and order the drinks, vaguely uncomfortable when the mâitre’d comes to the door and asks us where we would like to sit, vaguely uncomfortable when the mâitre’d corrects me and says she’s just a hostess and anyway women aren’t ever referred to as “mâitre’d.” Okay. Is that true. I’m vaguely uncomfortable when the car hesitates before starting, vaguely uncomfortable when it slips on the road, vaguely uncomfortable when I dig out the lip of the driveway or mop up the water pooling on the floor of the sunroom. I’m vaguely uncomfortable writing a blog entry, vaguely uncomfortable thinking about “prospective audiences,” vaguely uncomfortable responding to e-mails and texts, vaguely uncomfortable drinking sportwater, vaguely uncomfortable looking at menus, vaguely uncomfortable wearing clothes or looking in the mirror, vaguely uncomfortable riding motorcycles or gunning down strangers, vaguely uncomfortable reading The New Yorker or knifing Christian Louboutin in the stomach while lights shake in the distance and he encourages me to cut even deeper. I’m vaguely uncomfortable looking at images of graveyards, vaguely uncomfortable eating sushi while feeling disoriented, vaguely uncomfortable singing carols on the front steps of depressed parapalegics’. That’s all.

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