Eight

Everybody tells me to lighten up.  Enough, they say, about childhood trauma as a trigger for sadomasochistic fantasy among middle-aged homosexuals with dwindling trustfunds and elevated blood sugar.  Nobody cares.  But darn if it isn´t hard getting out of this depressive rut.  My boyfriend´s a paranoid schizophrenic, my mom has breast cancer, and I can´t seem to find the charger for my laptop.

Like many underemployed gringo ex-pats living in Mexico (the best country, by the way, for cheap tacos and even cheaper sex), I spend a lot of time thinking about myself.  I´ve even started a blog in case anybody else wants to think about me.  So far nobodies following but I´ve been spammed by a woman in Bulgaria and have even received two comments written in what appears to be Japanese.  I don´t understand Japanese but can only assume they´re congratulating me on my brilliant prose and trenchant insight.  Probably offering to buy me an exquisitely over-the-top sushi lunch the next time I´m in Tokyo.  If you´re reading this Hiroki, I´d be glad to.

Speaking of raw fish, wouldn´t you love to be one of those guys who travels all over the world eating insects and goat brains on TV?  I´d do it in a heartbeat if only my diet allowed simple carbohydrates or night shades.  Alas, nobody wants to serve maggot larvae without grandma´s world-famous dumplings.  Authenticity…so overrrated.

Actually, I´d accept any job where they´d pay me to put things in my mouth.  A judge for one of those reality-tv cooking competitions.  A sommelier specializing in big Argentinan reds, ones that pair well with humongous slabs of grass-fed beef char-grilled exactly medium-rare.  A whore. Unfortunately, most guys successful in these fields possess lithe muscular torsos and exceptionally good facial bone structure.  Bodies to get and keep the fickle attention of today´s increasingly shallow and mentally scattered public. Over-fifty fatties need not apply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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