Muse Muse

I was savagely judging the vulgar herd at the café I just walked out of, as if I myself were completely free of their vulgarity. No. No, that’s not it.
To qualify as one of these vulgar people, you need to meet the following conditions:
Condition one: “No seriousness allowed.”
Condition two, in my opinion: “Taste must not be too refined.”
Condition three: “No crisis about making a living; even if there is one, you may choose to actively forget it.”
What’s tricky is, I don’t know why I carry this strange air of authority. Maybe it’s like when R is about to tell a dirty joke to S or Q — they’d grin at each other, eyes glinting, full of mischief and daydreams — while I would somehow steer it toward the tone of a gynecology lecture, and they’d be itching to take notes like schoolkids.


