Exasperated Pumpkin Seeds

This week our team of bodega veterans made a sworn statement not to write about ourselves,  but rather about what’s important. As important as it can get to our subjective shabby selves. We try to pursue and peruse writing careers in new york and it means being born again every week and  regularly turning into ashes. Oh, well. Sometimes the word is all we have.

So this week we read an article about an artist who had participated in the Scope Art Fair – our favorite art fair in the world.  In that article the artist aptly called himself  ‘artist, writer’ and ( attention:) fucker. This, for some reason, got our corn radar and barometer blinking. Why didn’t he say that he showers  everyday or that he is an eater? Why didn’t he say  “I am my-teeth-brusher “, or  at least “I am a-mother-fucker” ? To us, the fucker is not enough, sorry, because we all do it, we fuck.  Had he said something like, ‘I am  a small-animal-tourcherer”, that would get some of us going… Now what keeps hacking at us  is this painful moral question…  Have we done bad to judge him? He sure was just talking.. We sit here drinking our Yerba Mate and eating our pumping seeds for 12 dollars a pop and we think…

Any thoughts?

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