what do they think about inside those heads of theirs?

it is the daughter's birthday. she wears a violet velvet dress and transparent plastic shoes. the mother takes us to one of the local wal-marts, to get the daughter's nails done, pictures taken. i sat outside watching the parade of sweatpants, smoking cigarettes and painting my nails fire engine red for free. wondering if a portion of my life was ending, a new one beginning. if this were the case, i'd still be thinking about it now, but i'm not, so it must not have been too important. something about being more presentable. put together. but then it was off to the giant buffet restaurant, to stuff our faces. this fat family and i, sitting amongst table after table of the toothless, confederate flag t-shirt wearing people. i watched in disgust, but still ate my portion. plate after plate, mounded high with fried goods. this dining experience of sorts seems never ending. the daughter starts to cry because she can't have more ice cream, more cake, more pie, more chicken. she pouts until she gets her way. there is something about the way she eats that makes my skin crawl. i hate it. the little mouth moving and chewing so viciously. the expression on her face is completely mundane. she stares off, as she furiously shoves the food in her mouth. and it seems she is always eating. every hour of everyday, unless she is sleeping, she's eating. i want to scream. and don't understand this feeling welling up inside me at the sight of a small child, simply eating. but it bothers me to a monumental degree. after dinner, we drive back to the small apartment in the ghetto, to watch some cheap hollywood flick about something trite. heartbreak, overcoming the odds, getting the girl. where am i, the thought often crosses my mind as i try to be appreciative. or at least glean something productive.


my conversation with a middle-aged man covered in skull tattoos, looking inbred, at the diner:

:whatcha listenin to?:
:oh, um, chris clark..:
:oh really, that's perdy cool.:
:..d-do you know, who that is..?:
:w'll yeah! i may be ol, but i's still hip.:
:oh.. i just didn't know.. that a lot of people had heard of him. that's surprising.:
:yup, been listenin to im fer years.:
:he's an electronic artist..:
:i know that!:
: ... :

i continued to fiddle with the little cup of cream on the table, eventually smoking a cigarette, while he stood staring at me. clearly, this man had no idea who chris clark was. why would he say he did? why did he do that? i don't understand at all. but the instance was humorous, and made me vastly uncomfortable. he stuck around to talk with me, attracting more crazies. two other fellows who asked me lots of questions about my computer, but never really gave me time to answer. so there i was, surrounded by older men in dirty clothes with large bellies and no teeth, asking me questions. in the diner.