My transmission just went out.
In a beautiful twist of events, I pulled up to our new house with my bookshelves, and my desk chair, welcomed by an eruption of transmission fluid from under my GMC.
Life is good, what can I say.
So, I did what any good writer does in these situations: I poured some whiskey and went to my computer to write before I strapped 25-lb dumbbells to my calves and jumped into the pond by my house. (With my luck, these days, it would be 3-feet deep, anyhow.)
Petrichor.
What a fantastic word.
Raise your hand if you know what that wonderful word means.
DON’T LOOK IT UP YET! (Do what you want, I can’t stop you.)
Yup! You guessed it! It’s the sweet smell of fresh rain on dirt. If you are human, you know how wonderful that scent is.
When I worked for Starbucks, (if ever there was a darker time in my life) (there’s not, even after my truck shit out tranny-fluid) one of my supervisors would ask me every Monday for the word of the week. I would give it to him, and he would write it on our dry-erase board in the back.
Good times.
I am that type of writer. Words are gorgeous little inventions of sound we have created to express the known world.
I love them.
Yup, even the word moist.
M-O-I-S-T…
Mmmmmm.
Who’s cringing right now?
NOT ME. (Get yourself together, please.)
Ready for me to tie all this together? I’m sure you are lost. I have everything under control, trust me.
With one quote from Andy, (yes, from The Office) “I wish there was a way to know you were in the good ol’ days before you actually left them.”
Like, before your transmission shit all over the driveway.
Before you had to ruin someone’s life, appeasing your boss yelling about how uncomfortable you and your supervisor made them when they presented metrics for the company.
And before you had to face the reality about being an adult, where everyone wants to bend their fellow man into making sure their own life is comfortable.
So, I’ll fix my damn transmission, and I’ll keep reaching out to my man, (now that I’m free from that verdant siren), and I’ll try my best, making two sandwiches a day and giving one to the first homeless person I see, sitting on the corner.
You can’t bitch about something unless you’re trying yourself.
That was odd and visceral.
I apologize.
Let’s do a quick joke!
A priest, a rabbi, and a pastor walk into a strip club…
I’m joking.
The joke was the joke about telling you a joke.
How “meta” of me.
Okay, I have been healed by the reality that some of you will be exposed to this awful post.
I just hope you are laughing.
At least a smile?\\]
Okay, I’m done.
DEUCES!
Jonathan Dominguez 