Livin' Like a Family of One: Dr. Goofus and Mr. Gallant

Goofus orders by pointing at the menu, not knowing whether it is a noodle dish or a side of lard.
Gallant studies the language before he moves to the country.
Goofus shrugs before the end of a sentence from a patient soup cart owner.
Gallant studies the language before he moves to the country.
Goofus lets the air conditioner blow his napkins and spoon across the modest eatery, chasing them down bent over at the waist.
Gallant weighs them down with his cup of water.
Goofus spills his entire bowl of maple noodles all over his lap before he gets to his first bite.
Gallant has actually eaten in public before and avoids such a pitfall.
Goofus looks like he pissed his pants.
Gallant doesn't.
Goofus asks where the bathroom is by pointing to his crotch.
Gallant studies the language before he moves to the country.
Goofus takes the simple directions but somehow ends up in the storage closet, assuming this is what he was told to do.
Gallant isn't a fucking moron.
Goofus opens the store supply of paper towels and sweats as he dries the stain off his pants.
Gallant doesn't have to. He's paid and left already, embarrassed for Goofus.
Goofus is told in a language he doesn't understand something likely along the lines of "Jesus, dude, why are you even here?"
Gallant knows why he is here. Gallant knows why he is everywhere. Gallant is wonderful.
Goofus fucked up.
Gallant didn't.
They no longer hang out.

This story, if it isn't already painfully obvious, has autobiographical undertones. But you can't make an omelet without braking a few eggs and spilling them on your dick. My efforts to flow outside my comfort zone certainly do take me there, and sometimes I look studly. More often, however, I look like a helpless infant with the build of an adult but severely compromised social and motor skills. But whatever. It's all part of the game. We're all part of the gears. But it would have been a good idea to study the language before I moved to the country. But it's all Chinese! That's not easy to learn, especially if you're only fleeing to the country as a temporary self-centered refugee.

It's Friday, Babies, and I only like the weekends. Tonight I'm taking a slam dancing class. Or...swing dancing. I don't know, whichever one my roommate teaches before the professional swing dancing session. Writing it out, I'm almost positive it's slam dancing now.

My job is too much work, but I negotiated for a severely truncated contract. It ends on July 23. At that time, I will be able to assess my future, which hopefully I'd've spent some time doing along the way.

Saturday I go hiking with someone. Or no one. I don't know. But I'm going hiking for sure. Sunday I'm playing pool with Viggy. She's wrapped up in the moral-high-road side of a conflict at her school regarding 6-year-old expired salt and a secret passageway leading to a hidden wooden shack acting as an illegal classroom. I can't wait to hear the details. She also plays bad ass bass and gives me cigarettes.

Okay, people are laughing around me. I have to tear away from the written word and get into the swing.

Learn the language, whatever it may be.

-LS^2