By: Iris P. Concepcion
Whenever there is a spooked-out eventuality in my periphery of optical absorption, I credit people who are camera-savvy to give my cellphone a necessary boost.
Even my innocent fork could wreck some lense's purpose. I also know that I have done something right when everyone directs me to be wrong. This sense of balance has always made me suspect for things I never would have imagined I shall give myself credit for i.e., rattling some old rhino skin.
When pushed, my daddies multiply by the hundreds and tell me to leave the rudiments of ugly politics. They advise me to just...............eat, laugh and write. If you have seen their recent photographs, guard your conscience; they do not look like humans.
They are actually fun to watch.
The silliest of course are those who stake you out for relationship twirls; I have not paid enough attention to that in the past. It is irrelevant that I must start hyperventilating over things I know are just there for some cheap, vengeful artwork. I am not so sure if this is a calisthenics of publicity work but I really, really, do not buy that crap. I am too old and wisened up by the better other in the world of lying and deceitful affection. If you love money, try doing business. Besides, I own a happy but riotous mane now and not much of a display.
So, here.
If they hate robots or German frankfurters, you could not make me say "no" to them just because I am not partial to furry boots. If I like your sentences, do not shove down on me your lifestyle of choice or your wonderful people. I always discover people based on my own standards of Richter-scale finding. If they are wonderful, I'd know.
My true friends are borderliners: they do not know what I do, or what I listen to. They are foulmouthed without offending me. They say things like:
"You have a period? You might stain my car seat." Then we go to the nearest church and ask for God's assistance.
They give me ditties I always seek even if they deliver it to me after seven years.
One of the corn's sons had managed to excavate an old Saturday Night Fever album cut I immensely adore. Yvonne Elliman's "If I Can't Have You." (I insist on the original, vinyl recording). These children are this writer's best friends now. They are ugly at their worst and super fabulous at their best.
Anyhow, I woke up the other day singing to this cut and it gladdened me.
I shall show you my fork next time when nobody is getting piqued over sense, sensibility and pure pride.