Pop! Goes the griefburst

A Jack In The Box receipt. They don't even have Jack In The Box in my hometown. If you're not familiar, Jack In The Box is a drive-thru fast food chain that mostly operates in the Western United States. Usually, their drive-thrus are open 24 hours a day. They give Taco Bell a real run for their money in the stoner munchie market. Good shit.

I found a Jack In The Box receipt in my car and I haven't lived in a place with a Jack In The Box since my wife died. It still has her order on it. Oh crap, the feels train is barreling down the tracks I'm tied to. I didn't cry, but that's only because I was in my car, which was idling in public, waiting for a friend. I can't really cry in public. Cuz I'm a man. HOOOAHH!!

That shit is some fucking bullshit, I can't cry in the United States because I have a Y chromosome unless I hide myself away from everyone to do it like a meth habit. I wanna know what some blueish-white collar guy walking from his job to get some lunch would've thought if he'd seen me bawling in my car holding a receipt.

"Oh, that's terrible, his girlfriend musta got ahold of his credit cards, look how sad he is, she must've bought the whole damn boutique! Sucks to be him!"

Nope. Just a fish sandwich ordered back in February 2015 (if you saw my post about me cleaning, a pattern of not throwing stuff out is likely emerging in your mind). Fuck. At least the guy in my imagination had a bit of sympathy and didn't call me a pussy for crying, so he's not a bad dude. And he gave me enough credit to have a girlfriend. Maybe I don't give real strangers enough credit. At least in my imagination they're sometimes nice.

And if I'd been crying when my friend came out? I imagine he would come out like I was in the middle of growing a tumor out of my forehead in the shape of a possum and he just had to wait for the tumor to get big enough to climb off my head and skitter away. He wouldn't know what to do or say or think or how to react. Cuz it's just a Jack In The Box receipt. What could he do in any case? Offer me a picture frame to save it for eternity? Offer me the use of his shredder?

So I did the man thing, pocketed the receipt and my emotions, and went about my day.

Guys try so hard to avoid crying that we don't even understand crying. I'd like to gain the self-esteem one day to be crying while staring a stranger in the eye. Preferably a male stranger. I would cry as a challenge to him. I would dare him to say something judgmental about my sobs. Nobody recognizes the crying dude as the alpha male, but that could change, right? I'd like to cry like a boss. Cry like a gangsta. I'd like to brandish that Jack In The Box receipt like a shotgun, filling those around me with fear. Because anybody could feel this sad. Any thug or tough guy or German dude really can feel this sad. All they need to do is find someone they love unbelievably and watch them die. That'll put hair on your chest. Figuratively, of course, unless while you're crying, you're also rubbing your chest with Rogaine.