A Turd in the Hand

I didn’t know the dog poop was on my shoe until I pulled it off and got it all over my hand. People not cleaning up after their dogs is something that gets discussed a lot at condo board meetings, but no one seems to have any solutions. I say if you see someone not cleaning up after their dogs, you should shoot them with a paintball gun, because Jesus, how freaking hard is it to pick up crap with a plastic bag, when the condo freaking provides plastic bags? 

This has really ruined my morning. 


The Pen Is Mighty

On my birthday, I woke up and biked eight miles to a cafe a few towns over that I love. I ordered a latte and some chocolate cake, because it’s my birthday and I want cake. I get my latte and my cake, settle into a table, and get to work updating my journal.  

That’s when the guy shows up. He’s an older man, mid-fifties, in sandals and socks, and he is fascinated by my pens. I can’t blame him. They’re a set of twenty-five felt tip pens that run the spectrum from shades of brown and green to shades of red and orange (including black and gray). The man likes office supplies, and so do I, so we bond over that. He concludes by handing me a card and telling me he owns and operates a “Global cannabis business.” Then he goes to the restroom, which is right behind me.  

I put his card in my bag and go back to journaling. 

A few minutes later he sits down at my table and asks me what my passions are. I tell him. He asks what the thing I’d like to accomplish the most is (getting a lot of people to read my writing). He says, “You and your wife should come by my place this weekend. We’ll talk. I could get you those readers.” I say thanks. He tells me about the three Cs of his life: Christ, Cannabis, and Capitalism. But especially cannabis. And he tells me why. Eventually he leaves.  

I didn’t go to his place. I wonder if I’m going to see him again at that cafe. I wonder if he’ll remember me. He’ll definitely remember my pens.