Humans are disgusting.

I will admit to the fact that, while yes I am no less than any other human, (or maybe I am because I am a woman), all men and women are both equally disgusting.

And maybe this has to do with the fact that I work at a restaurant. The monstrous masses of obese and sickly coming limping in as the clock closely reaches six. And at around that time, I need to prepare myself for the most grotesque events to follow. Here is a sample list of the daily encounters I have at the Elephant bar;

1.) The fowl smell of bowel movements and body odor plus a pungent smell of cheap perfume worn by the woman just flow through the open doors of our main entrance. You can sense this coming.

2.) The adjustment of seating arrangements for the elderly who cannot walk far, or just simply choose not to in my opinion, along with the moving chairs to create enough space for the morbidly fat. They cannot sit in booths, and though they try with all their might to squeeze into such open spaces, they fail at that as well as everything else in life.

3.) The snapping of fingers, waving you over, and having to repeat your name to them several times because they can’t hear what you’re saying and then asking you where you’re born. Because of being of non-European decent that automatically means that I must be born in a different country, (although I am, it would be nice not to just assume).

4.) The listening of stories of when they were back in Korea while I have other customers waiting for my service.

5.) And finally, the overweight eating their food after ordering the most highly caloric drinks, appetizers, entrees, and deserts with great eagerness. This normally ends in a situation where I am forced to stand in front of them asking, “is there anything else I can get for you?” with a plastered smile as a dollop of mayonnaise clings to the corner of their mouth and their neck fat sways the opposite directions of their chin. This mainly pertains to men with such largeness.

Disgusting.

beach banter

Swimming through the seaweed is quite enjoyable if you can overcome your initial revulsion. Especially the grass. It’s like being caressed by hundreds of feathers. In the bathtub.

I had been waiting for the marine layer to burn off, but as the afternoon broke I gave up hope of a sunny southwestern sky and headed to the beach anyway. The water was brisk, and navigating the murk and bobbing heads of seaweed definitely had an apocalyptic timbre.

The man was already sitting down at the top of the steps by the time I shivered out of the water. He was 2 years from 40, his bike was orange, but I don’t recall his name. Approaching him on my way to the dry rock guarding my belongings I noticed a petite multicolor glass piece only partially obscured by his posture. My hello was met with a greeting and semiserious quip regarding my potential affiliations with law enforcement.

I sat down and, unwilling to offend with a refusal of his kindness, I finished what he had begun. It did his claims justice. Plus, he was kind enough to refer me to a nondescript downtown establishment with a promise of even greater bounties.

I asked him about turning thirty, he explained a slowdown around thirty-three followed by a rejuvenation period; commented on youth ending conveniently as you begin to tire of it. We chatted about the weather and the water. He had no discernible employment or education. He spent his days remodeling his girlfriends home with the handiness inherited from a past life in auto repair. His goal was surviving, giving me cause to consider the potential contentedness of a life spent just surviving in a place as nice as this.

He took off at the first opportunity. Undoubtedly trying to escape my persistent reminders of his headlong rush to the grave. It was an interesting encounter, leaving many points to be considered. Also, I am pretty sure I was boring him.