_{Just seeing who's paying attention.}

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Hi. I'm an illuminated screen with vowels and consonants, nice to be met, so, when I say: I'm from where the weed's so good it's only after you wash your face you realize you forgot to take your glasses off, it must be a joke. Has to. Paragraphs don't wear glasses.

Weekend/weakened, however, totally real like No Parts spelled backward and you're probably wondering what the..

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I go outside, observe, venture around a little bit. If no one's looking, I'll snap a photo of a car parked in no parking and put it on the cover. Explore, see what I see, shit like that and then make a mental note cuz Pura's usually with me and she gets all flustered when I take pictures like the time the lady in front of us had nine (9) 6-packs of Mountain Dew in her motorized shopping cart which, by the way, I've only seen in the US and nowhere else, and one (1) small bottle of water and nothing else.

Mind if I get a picture of that?

And then they flip out, call me names, Pura gets embarrassed, I'm completely taken aback cuz all I saw was how to avoid diabetes and immobility.

I should be able to take a picture of that.

Not everyone's in agreement.

So, I write it down somewhere, come here, record it on the block before I forget and you either laugh or don't. No sweat off my nouns. I'm not even here.

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Saw a lady at the petrol station with Ew, People! on the front of her shirt. I don't disagree with that statement. People kinda gross me out, too, like when a triple-x shirt can't contain their belly but it was her son's shirt that inspired this one.

She's got two small children in tow, a boy and a girl, girl's the youngest, I'm guessing 4'ish. She has each of them by the hand, little boy's wearing a Kermit The Frog shirt.

Green, bright green, he can't be more than 6 years old in a bright green Kermit The Frog shirt.

Kermit's bent over at the waist, spreading his ass cheeks apart with both hands, and in 3x fluorescent blue letters:

EXIT ONLY

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Same station, different day, it's right down the street from the house, lotta good material there. Stop, park, plug in the pump, go inside to pay when just outside the station entrance stands a couple; presumably husband and wife. They're enjoying lunch.

At a gas station.

Lunch is strategically positioned around the top of one of those huge 50 gallon trash cans they station between pumps and near exit doors. It's got one of those boxy, fiberglass tops on it with flappy lid things to keep the elements out and garbage in except both flappy lid things are missing—garbage can, plastic top, no deterrent flaps. Bees and flies and whatever else I couldn't make out, mostly just bees, zooming in and out and all around their table top trash can dining room.

As I approach the entrance and have a clearer view, I count three things of Ranch dressing, each with the lid completely removed, a box of chicken wings they're dipping in the Ranch and a large pepperoni pizza, about six slices remain. Each of them has a 40 ounce cup they're sucking on, one's clear, probably Sprite.

Annnd... Now's about the time I realize I'm staring like it's a wet t-shirt contest.

I stared and watched each chicken wing make a splash in Ranch before disappearing in their face. Large pepperoni in a half-open cardboard box they're viciously fanning flies from atop a wide-open garbage can and, here I am, practically counting ice cubes until they caught me staring at them staring at me.

How embarrassing!

I ducked out faster than Nick Maduro.

They must've felt defeated, too, cuz when I exited only a few minutes later, there was no sign of them like a river crossing in Kursk.

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Calling weed a gateway drug is like calling a lawn mower a gateway DUI.

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I do that sometimes. Not DUI—random question like would you rather come face to face with a bear in the forest or a man?

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So, anyway, I make more mental notes and take less pictures cuz my wife embarrasses easily and says things like:

I have to work with these people. Don't embarrass me!

But it was just a question..

It's not WHAT you say, it's how you say it.

Wife's holiday work event, we're dressed to impress; dancing, mingling, enjoying ourselves. I met her supervisor, some colleagues, a bunch of people that night and then this one dude, Alex, proceeds to tell me he and his wife just returned from New York, their first time there.

I said, the rest of the country isn't that filthy!

He continued:

I was so excited for New York street food and all there was were a buncha Abu Dobby trucks.

I don't know how to spell that—"Abu Dobby."

Abu Dobby?!

Pura sensed it. Her hand clinched firmly onto mine.

You know, 'Abu Dobby,' someone who's not a real New Yorker.

What do you mean, 'real?' Italian?

"No, a 'real' New Yorker" he said, emphasizing real.

Death-grip / I can't stop it / She's squeezing my hand tighter while increasing her fake smile Americans do when we're uncomfortable.

= }

English, Italian? What's a 'real' New Yorker? And what's Abu Dobby, I'm not from here, is that racist for Asian?

_{(Ow! Fuck!)}

That's all I said: 'is that racist for Asian?' Pretty straight forward, I thought, when his wife chimed in, apparently seizing the opportunity to diffuse the situation:

No, not Asian, he means Indian.

I laughed.

You know India's in Asia, right?

And Pura broke my finger.

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