Swag in the middle

Flynn, the boy, cannot and will not abide being the recipient of gifts.  He is inversely a buyer of presents.  If he wasn’t so busy being my therapist, he could get the help he needs for these sorts of nonsensical personality flaws that hearken back to some deeply buried aversion to having goodies showered down upon him.  I myself, though suffering from more odd mental tics than I or you care to have related here, do not suffer from that particular aversion.   Public pools. Yes, decidedly averse.  Gifts: In no way averse.

The thing is, when I was younger, by half, I liked shiny things with carats and facets.  I still like those things, but  they were always, always more important because of what I thought other people would think about me.  Now that I’m more me than ever, my idea of swag the new light fixture Flynn put up for me.

It took him about a week of fits and starts, enough curse words to fill an evening at a Hollywood comedy club, a trip to the hardware store for him, and a drink for me, but it’s up and being all shiny with its shiny self.   That’s right.  I’ve got swag.