I am in my bubble most days. Almost all the time. I am with my people. I am with some heightened intellectuality. I am – okay – a little bit restricted from the reality. A little bit removed from humanity. Or, at least, I think, what we’ve become. I find myself there sometimes. It’s a mess. It’s a god damn disaster. I forget sometimes that the stories that we tell aren’t stories at all but non-fiction true-account reality. Not like those crafted stories that you see on TV. This isn’t teen mom, this is crying child, corporal punishment in the middle of Safeway. This is you queer, you faggot, no homo, I’d like to find me a girl to make me dinner and I think it’s cute when they get angry. I just want to find me a nice bitch. I just want to get laid. I haven’t gotten laid. I-been-having-wet-dreams-mother-fucker.
Oh, I’m sitting near this group. I don’t want to move. They are gesticulating about their genitalia. Wide arm movements that make up for what they lack. I want to move, I do want to move, but I don’t. He hits me with his stretch and apologizes and I pretend I’m not there. I am watching them in their natural habitat. Girl, can I get yo number. Hey dude, check out this book, with all ‘dem vampires n’ shit. I want to sit here and type everything that they say and publish it and everyone will say You’re so gifted. You’ve really captured a voice. It’s just, you know. Not very realistic. But it’s a nice kind of fantasy. A statement on modern misogyny.
I sneer as they discuss the finer workings of smegma with a group of young girls after carefully checking their age by asking “Are you 18?” They want to grab a drink. They want to catch a smoke. They wish they’d hit a break. I beg them in my head to talk to me. To look at me. To accidentally bump me one more time. I will Kill Bill this shit in the middle of the bookstore. I will unsheathe the almighty rage of the inner-feminist. I will pull out my gigantic horse cock and smack him in the face so hard his balls turn blue and he thinks, gee, maybe, I dunno, I should see a counselor, because that chick just did some fucked up shit right there.
Okay, okay. Back to Tyrion. Back to Arya. I am contented in my ignorance. These aren’t real people. They are fiction. They are pretend. I will write about them later and give them funny names like Chester and Loisie. In my mind they’re wearing polka dotted body suits and as they talk about degrading the female form they are painting one another with cheesecake. I give up – hands up – table toss – some people just aren’t worth understanding.