Zero F*cks

Right, we’ve heard it before: you give zero fucks. You’ve been there, it’s beaten your resolve within the last inch of its length, you’ve #werked through it with tears and hashtags and shiny happy cocktails, you’ve finally risen above it because that positive thoughts tumblr told you to, and the thesis to your fifteen minutes of hard labor on the train pull of adversity is… Zero Fucks. I give you that many.

As much as I profess to give less than zero _____’s about politics, the game which differentiates itself from any other blood and guts sport with the fallacy of a still-paying-taxes democracy, I find myself consuming a lot of social studies in mental illness and free speech.  Yes, it’s a polarizing election year, two criminals vying for a figure head position, the headlines are inescapable. It’s as if none of us ever got out of high school. Isn’t the name-calling thing kind of foolish? If all men are created equal (some women), then bitching each other out for the sake of minions and sycophantic followers is about as un-American as it gets. I realize that when person A calls person B something person B finds offensive, the natural reaction is for person B to strike back. Whether with inflammatory words or something more viscerally painful like a virtual knuckle sandwich. Everything is virtual nowadays anyway, I see few literal knuckle sandwiches anymore without paying a PPV fee.  But as one of the only civilized adults on the planet I can honestly say that restraint of tongue is quite a high that’s not only free, but remains without repercussions. Fuck me? Fuck you! Doesn’t always work. But I’ve tried my best to walk away from those who have fucked with my peace and ease without compromising my ability to walk with my head held high. My God is me, and I only answer to him/her/it. Yet still I take the bait of the Trump versus everyone who’s not str8/white headlines. It doesn’t really affect my outcome but it does waste valuable time I could be spending on much more important things which shall remain nameless right now because I can’t think of any.

None of this makes sense to some. I get that. Americans and others want their pound of flesh, their target for pointing a finger, a scapegoat for the weak and an example for the strong. Hatred is a much more powerful emotion than love, and fear is just hatred without action. And fear/hatred seems to be the future for many. If everyone had enough money to satisfy just a little bit more than what they needed the hate-to-love ratio would probably be more even. Most of the time it comes down to that. I’ve been in love a few times and let me tell you this- I’d give em ALL up for simple financial security. Love don’t live here anymore, it just stays over every once in a while. Moral of paragraph? Expect less, accept more. Happiness is not necessarily found in the bottom of a whiskey bottle or the drawstring of a speedo model named Alejandro. It’s found in the multitude of figures in the portfolio spreadsheet.  Everything else is accouterments.

What I like about blogging is the lack of editing I feel I need. As a writer I am guilty of over-editing everything I have ever written. It comes back to nothing ever being finished. But this blogging is just a brain explosion on momentary thoughts. Not taken seriously. Everyone does it. It’s not that special. I give zero cares if it’s read or not. It’s all about me.

In conclusion I’ll expound on French tourists <insert anti-french sentiment here>. Every time I go to lunch in Soho I get stuck next to arrogant and unbathed French tourists complaining about something inane and smoking in the no-smoking zone. Yesterday at an oyster bar around 2:30 P.M. on Spring Street it didn’t really perturb me as much as it has in the past; the lunch was good and the waiter was hilarious. When French bitches next to me started bitching as only French bitches do I chose to ignore them and smile my way through my cappuccino with a distinctively Italian la ˈdoltʃe ˈviːta zero-fucks whimsy I’ve come to cultivate as a nihilist with good shoes (Paul Smith). Afterwards I busted the balls of a French art curator around the block who tried to sell me a sculpture of Elvis’s head while I silently envied the gallery space itself. Still looking for a permanent residence. I love Soho and would live there in a heartbeat were it not for the French tourists. West Village here I come. Keep it #gay.

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