75 reasons not to talk to boys

I oddly enough, don't feel all that shitty. Maybe I'm distracted, or distracting. Or in denial. But I don't think I'm in denial. This in regards to the fact that I've been inevitable preparing myself for my grandmama's death for the past week. This preparation occured in my head, except for today, a culmination of sorts, I jetted down there for a 'final visit', and it was what it was.

I certainly have been walked in on in the bathroom a few too many times lately for it to be a mere coincidence. In public places, lets see. On the NJ Transit train, and in a diner, yea. Those both happened on consecutive days. A part of me doesn't care. The part that doesn't care is also the part that doesn't feel the need to eat with utensils, pee anywhere but nature, be too civil, and pay for stuff. That's right, folks. I lack a basic moral gene. In the presence of a huge corporation, when there is some smallish trinket to be swiped, or had, such as a granola bar, a fruit, or who knows what, I feel awash with a sense of bold entitlement. My mind zeroes in on the fact there there is a thing to be had. And how the place this thing came from has millions more of the same thing, and it means more to me than it ever will to the cardboard box from whence they came.

What's the deal with chest hair? Does it matter? I think that anything that amplifies / exemplifies / embodies the difference between genders is a turn on, simply put.