Our society has convinced us that there is an absolute for cool, a sort of Plato's realm of ideal shapes for hipsters. Last night an old friend of mine reminded me that cool is as subjective as any of those other abstractions that we throw around. Cool for me probably isn't going to be cool for you. And you know what? I intend not to care anymore. If you don't like my booty dance, the way I sing in my car, or the way I live my life that's too damn bad. I do what I do because deep down inside, I really think it's cool.
Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline. There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count. So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings. ——— The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started? Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.” “I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.” “They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal. “But there are still soldiers ove