"You know, we live in 2018 and sex is still a taboo subject--to talk about and to engage in." » Y G H M®: the stories, yo
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“You know, we live in 2018 and sex is still a taboo subject–to talk about and to engage in.”

“You know, we live in 2018 and sex is still a taboo subject–to talk about and to engage in.”

“Yeah”, I reply as I roll my eyes, “that´s great, but it doesn´t change the fact that you keep taking my biscottis. Are you going to get your own?”

“Hear me out”, the writer says as he reclines in the seat in the chair in the cafe, “if you start with a defensive position in a protectionist stance to grasp your projected false self–you´re prob not going to go anywhere.”

I roll my eyes; dodging questions.

“So what does that have to do with you taking my coffee snack?”

The writer pauses; OMG… I think I´ve finally made a dent in his emotional armor!

“So, what I´m saying”, he continues as he leans forward and picks up his taza, “is that you should look at what you are doing and transform it into your business–your sweet adventure, inc.”

“Yoowzers!”, I say as I spill my coffee on my shirt, “that´s hot!”

“Excuse me”, the writer says as he sets down his coffee and leans back, “I don´t understand.”

“Oh yeah”, I reply as I turn my head to look out the window, “I´m not actually paying attention to you–I spilled hot coffee on my shirt. It burns like the midday sun in a small town in the desert in a country with no water.”

“Yeah”, the writer replies as he turns his head to look out the window; wtf does he keep looking at?

He continues as he picks up a biscotti.

There–told you–he is eating another fucking one of my biscottis. I am so tired of this 

“I saw that movie, too”, he replies as he takes a bite

My digitaltelephone beeps; your blood pressure is increasing.

“Hey”, I reply as I stand up from my chair, “I need to use the bathroom–excuse me.”

I turn and take a step towards the bathroom; I splash cold water from the faucet on to my face; I look into the mirror; is it worth it? Is it worth it to keep coming here? Is this your life? Running to the bathroom when you´re stressed to douse your head with cold water–is this why you came?

“Excuse me”, I say as I pull the chair out from the table and sit down, “I´m back–so what were you talking about?”

“Consider”, the writer says as he leans forward and picks up another biscotti

I pause; breath–pause–stop–prepare your reaction, not your impulsive action–the one with the best counter wins, in time–patience–discernment–don´t attach to the moment, but instead remove the hypnosis to observe you–you are programmed to lose, if you don´t detach from the automatic–programmed to self-destruct–so you must change your autonomous thoughts to be more, inalignment, fluid–people can´t attach to what doesn´t stop–rush by so fast that they can´t catch you–and, they are left scratching their heads and wondering, “why didn´t we see that–what was that?”

“that”, the writer continues, “your best self is your honest self–you need to learn how to express it, in an artistic manner, to push your life forward; you can dodge a bullet, but you can´t catch it with your hands.”

“Too fast”, I reply as I lean back and look up at the ceiling, “if you go too fast, people can´t catch you–people can´t attach to what they can´t comprehend–you can´t hold on to us, if we don´t stop–it´s a protectionsist position with a strong counter; your enemy, you, will walk into your sword, your punch, your advantage, if you give them the opportunity; give them rope, but not enough to harm you, or themselves; give them a chance, but be aware that you will reply from a position of strength; position yourself to your strength; never give in to your automatic behavior–this is the path to despair, hopelessness and, ultimately, being controlled; dependent, independent, and, in time, interdependent–use your surroundings to your advantage, this means people, also.”

“So what are you saying?”, the writer asks as he picks up a biscotti.

“I´m saying”, I reply as I lean back in my chair, “that you´ve been filmed this whole time.”

The writer gasps; that heathen!

“So”, I say as I get up from my chair and turn my head to look out the window, “…. um… I´m going to go to the bathroom.”

“So how´d it go?”, HR asks as she takes a sip of soda.

“You know”, I reply as I pick up the taza, “I think he finally got the clue about personal responsibility–being a team player; how success is best shared.”

“Yeah”, she replies as she grabs a bag of digitalpapitas, “I get what you are saying–I mean at the mechanic? Is the spacejet ready for this weekend so I can go with my girlsquad to the beach?”

“Oh, right”, I reply as I set the taza down, “yeah, the mechanic said that it was a faulty sparkplug that was knocking. It looks good.”

“Hun”, my wife says as she sets the platter in the middle of the table, “I learned a new recipe.”

“That´s nice, dear”, I say as I pick up the spoon and scoop the digitalpollo onto my plate.

She pauses; I hope he likes it.  I take a bite.

“Oh wow!”, I reply as I reach for another spoonful, “it´s fucking delicious!”

She smiles; HR rolls her eyes; the dog in the corner tilts his head; I turn my head to look out the window.

“Go on”, the therapist says in his small office, “that´s all that happened?”

I shrug; yeah, pretty normal, really.

He types the notes on his laptop.

“Looks good”, he replies as he leans back, “that should be enough material for the next installment in the textbook curriculm.”

I take a sip of soda; I spill it on my shirt.

“Yeah, ok”, I reply as I wipe the mess with my hand, “sure. See you next Wednesday, then?”

“Sure”, he replies as he hits ctrl+g on his computer and the document is saved, “good luck this weekend.”

“Thanks”, I reply as I stand up from the chair, “I´m going to need it, right?”

Moments later, I leave the small office; what am I going to do about that?  The answer would come, but it would not be obvious–that would happen, later.  But, I´m getting ahead of myself.  So… back to the story…

“Hey HR”, I yell out in the hallway, “you have school today or what?”

“Yeah”, she replies as she runs down the stairs, “I´m late–I have to go.  We´ll talk about it some other time, ok?”

I roll my eyes; the front door closes.

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