slack friday

‘Our dog fights wolves and bears’, she boasted for all and sundry at the post thanksgiving dog run debates. ‘ I wanna yell, are you on Tinder? Asking for a friend’, but I am afraid of the answer> I wanna look back at which lululemon clad trustafarian house bound hepford wife is belching our such absurdities. I wanna yell, “baby, that 4 legged hairy dick magnet that you drag around couldn’t fuck up the post man if he was one legged , drunk, and wrapped in bacon’, but instead I dip my head and cock my ears and wonder what other blusterous banalities I can absorb this morning. Momentarily flummoxed, I continue to question the sagacity of a double chicken salad sandwich on toasted martins potato roll breakfast. I wonder of the hepford wive’s designer dog would fight me for a chicken salad sandwich. More importantly, I wonder if the hepford wife eats artisanal chicken salad out of a dog bowl , bound, in a French maid’s uniform whilst I fashion those form fitting yoga pants into some form of post prandial PPE. I wonder if she likes cupcakes. But I can/t look back . I don/t wanna know who did what to whom and what a drag it is that the wifi cut out in the middle of watching THE CROWN. I wonder what kind of weirdos watch videos of child birth, but then I realize, Williamsburg, go figure. I take my last gulp of the delicious first call iced Americano. I wonder what the Mexican woman at the Laundromat ate for Thanksgiving. I laugh about what a great neighborhood we live in that people gather masked en masse on a beautiful autumnal morning and have canine pissing contests, perfect practice for their futures of competitive parenting. I wonder if the hepford wife speaks Spanish and likes to read Neruda aloud in bed in an old tom petty tshirt.