mmmmlxvii

A Life of Crime

“It’s a Good Thing You Don’t Mean That!”
I say this wholeheartedly convinced. As
if that’s a given. Whatever, I’m being
proactive. Things go downill from there.

Because what if you did? What if he did?
It never fails, when the anxiety raises its
overgrown head, the doubt arrives shortly
thereafter. Del is short for Delulu. And for

delusional, deleterious, delete. Delinquent
(but, alas, no juvenile). Speaking of teen
agers, I can’t wait to get paid, no matter
how little, because I have really got to get

some deodorant. Which reminds me of the
last time I did. I was shopping at Target, had
quite a pile in the cart, after I’d emptied the
items onto the conveyor belt and wheeled it

around to collect my groceries – wouldn’t you

know it? – a seven dollar stick of deodorant
remained stuck in the bottom corner of my cart.
Well, as I was wheeling away, I surreptitiously

picked it up and snuck it into one of the bags
full of paid for items as I was wheeling it over
to the shopping cart repository (I call it the
Shopping Cart Lounge). Bingo, just like that,

I smelled okay for a month or two for free!
Now I’m a shoplifter. If you would have told
me this would be the case when I was an
adolescent I would have gotten angry and

vehemently and sincerely berated you for
saying such a cockamamie thing. Anyhow,
now that I’ve had a little bit of time to really
mull it over, I’m pretty sure he meant it. This

is so horrific that my anxiety becomes acid
reflux. Delineate, delegate, Delta Dawn, Delroy
Lindo, [almost weeping now] Adore Delano (for that
matter, Bianca Del Rio), Del Taco, Delmore Schwartz...