I was reading an article about some of the most scariest places on Earth. A lot of places were naturally scary: massive sinkholes in popular dive spots, a river that had strong undercurrents killing every single human that had fallen in, or certain parts of the Amazon where everything from bacteria to animal and plant life was made to kill humans.
To me, the scariest places on the list were where violent humans lived, committing crimes such as slavery, rape, and wide spread killings. It's scary to me because they had made the choice to commit these crimes. As oppose to going into the Amazon, the wild life that want to eat people do it because their stomachs are gurgling. It's not a choice so much as that's what they do. A crocodile will bite your hand off if you try and pet it. It doesn't hate you as much as it finds your hand delicious.
. . .
So on July Fourth, I'm always reminded of the freedom we live in. I'm sitting here outside of a Starbucks writing this post, working on my novel and reviewing my writing coach's notes, enjoying the warm Summer day, which reminds me of how much I miss Hawaii. Heaven.
I had watched an interesting documentary called, Are All Men Pedophiles? It explores the reasons behind the 18-year old rule of consensual sex, why certain men prefer boys, and looks into why the fashion magazine industry seems to cast only 16-year old girls for their covers as opposed to women. I particularly enjoyed it because it made me peer into myself, my own likes, dislikes. But what shook me to my bones was the ending as the director believes that all men are pedophiles. You'll have to watch the film, which is on Netflix, to get a clear reason why, and it isn't as bad as it sounds.
. . .
Taking a break from work, I stroll down Market Street in good old San Francisco, and enter a comic book/toy specialty store. I turn down an isle where the shelves hold toys for toddlers. Because the documentary is a bit fresh on my mind I freak out, despite the fact that I'm the only customer in the store. To quiet my mind, I quickly go down the comic book isle where the women portrayed on the covers would make Barbie have a complex about her boob size. And I get self conscious about looking at them and imagine the clerks thinkin' "Perve."
I saw a hot chick. I was like dayem! Tight white dress. Long luscious locks. Eyes that would tear down the walls of the most hardened criminals and turn them into panting boys. Kissable red lips. The kind that would elicit very dirty images in both men and women's minds. High heels that did its job, emphasizing her treasure-filled chest and abundant assets.
Then she lit up a cigarette.
And there goes my...um...hard...abs. I do need to stop eating so much ice cream.
Have you ever done this:
You unlock your car, put your key into the ignition, put your coffee into the cup holder, click your seatbelt in, then check your pocket, your bag, maybe the key slipped under you on your seat, look on the floor...and go, "Where the hell is my key?"
No? Just me?