Easy Pickles

Today in Queens I passed a store called "Easy Pickins" but at first I thought it said "Easy Pickles" and I was imagining living near this store and how before long it would just become part of conversation and not even sound weird or funny to me when I talked about picking up my groceries at Easy Pickles or dropping off my clothes at Easy Pickles or getting my imaginary dog groomed at Easy Pickles. As is perhaps clear, I wasn't sure what kind of establishment Easy Pickles would be, but I'm pretty sure I'd frequent it.

Then I had dinner with an ex in Brooklyn who casually let slip that to this day he remains a defender of my writing. Or maybe he said that he finds himself defending my writing. Whichever it is it just lodged in my brain like a grain of sand in an oyster, causing periodic discomfort and unleashing the full power of my ability to think the fuck out of something (defend my writing? what? who's attacking it? no really, what did they say? huh? and the casual way you just tossed that off, as if I should know that people are openly disparaging my writing, as if perhaps I'm too sensitive for making an issue of this? I mean I guess that's the price you pay for putting your words out there and as a writer I can't expect that everyone is going to agree with me but it's not like I've been courting controversy. Oh my God, do I really need approval this much? I don't mean to make this all about me but can we back up and talk about that some more. No really, what?) and by the end of dinner I had a full-on brain pearl. I'm thinking of having it made into a tasteful brooch.