Used And Dirtied

There is a used book store next to the place I work at. I have gone in there only two times prior to this past Saturday night. It's kind of a shitty little place, to be frank. It's not like one of those little places that are lined wall to wall ceiling to floor with old paperbacks and tomes, this one is more like a empty store lot that happens to have tables with books on them. I'm only ever at the mall I work at to work, I don't browse around. I don't have the money to browse. And I have slowly become to hate the process known as shopping. Especially because now a days it's considered a sport or a spectacle, thanks to reality television. Another reason to ban that friggin crap from the airwaves. The first time I went in there it was just to see what it was, just to know what was next door. The second time I was killing a long lunch break, and ended up buying three books. One was a cookbook, another was a novel, and the last was a fantastic photo book that is best described as "yummy". I ended up in there again trying to get through a lunch break, and happened to notice the guy working. He was good looking. Clean cut, maybe a little too much for my liking, but still he wore it well. Good teeth, smart skin. And the kind of eye color that is a dangerous weakness to me. It's like kryptonite to me. From the first guy I kissed, to the most recent, I've always paid attention to eye color. And this book store boy had that color. He was a catch from beginning to end, all his chapters looked good. He read well. Alright, no more metaphors. So on my lunch break I didn't do anything but stare and research. Then I went back to work. And made up my mind that on my last fifteen I would go and talk to him. Which is a huge thing because I never approach first. I'm not being conceited, and I'm not the boy that everyone rushes to talk to, I'm just really terrible at knowing when someone is interested. OR even gay. So me telling myself that my fifteen minute was going to consist of speaking with the clean cut book boy, was an out of the ordinary big thing. So I walked back in, spotted him in the art history section, and made my way to cooking section parallel to where he was standing. It took him about ten seconds to walk over and say hello. I then made a comment about working there getting boring due to the lack of customers. He replied with saying he had a stack of books to read at the cash counter. I asked what he was reading. The whole time he was making direct eye contact and smiling and running his hands up and down his arms. I thought I was having a bright and shiny moment. But then he goes and tells me about the book he's reading, something having to do with learning about being a better boyfriend and something else. After I realized I was making a complete dick of myself I sort of blacked out and had the strong urge to slit my wrists with the paperback cook book I was holding in my hands. I think I cut him off and said I had to get back before my break was over. Cut to me in the bathroom swearing and cursing into the sink. Completely wishing I could be washed down the drain along with the other dirt and dust mites. That was the turd on top of the mud pie for me. This week has kicked my dirt covered ass. I've been interviewing at other jobs to try and get a second income going, and I'm remembering how gross an experience that is. Having to whore yourself and explain to utter strangers why you are awesome and wonderful and talented. Making everything sound so much better then it really is, trying to appear shiny and new when, in truth, you're used and dirtied up. I even had an interview at my current job for a promotion, and that too felt like I was prostituting myself out. Saying what I needed to just to make that dollar. Making sure all my mud spots were covered up. It just made me feel dirty, and not in a music video kind of way. I'm talking about feeling covered in grease and dirt and grime and guck. I don't think guck is a real word. But you get the picture I'm painting. And I'm not even going to get into the concept of me being a scruffy, beat up looking set of ribs who has fatal tendencies of falling for and/or always wanting the clean cut ones. That mix just never works out the right way. Because it goes one of two ways. Either they want to cut it short before they get too dirtied up, or I feel bad about getting them muddy and call it off. Guys don't like messy relationships. They don't care if they leave their shit scattered around the house, or their room or their car or the kitchen, but they try to keep themselves stain free. And my Dove (for Men!) body wash can only take care of so many problems. Both ways end up with me lucking out. I keep feeling like I belong on the shelf or the table top with the other used goods ,covered in dust, and not with the clean cut boy who works in the store. Is there a used boyfriends store? I wouldn't mind laying on a table and taking a little nap. That seems a lot more realistic then having someone great and wonderful come into my life again and clean me up, and not mind that I'm used and dirty, and hold me close without being worried about stains. I don't see that happening.

“A person might be an expert in any field of knowledge or a master of many material skills and accomplishments. But without inner cleanliness his brain is a desert waste.” -Sri Sathya Baba