I have an American coot. Perhaps I should explain.
My highly esteemed sister is wildlife biologist. Her specialty is birds. On one excursion, they were sitting around the campfire, exchanging the local bird gossip, which I assume all bird-watchers do. Anyways, after a few PBRs I’m sure, they got to talking about relationships.
After discussions of girlfriends and boyfriends, one woman talked about her coot. That is, a boy who looks like a boyfriend, swims like a boyfriend, but is not a boyfriend. A “thing”.
My cousin was diagnosed with a case of a coot-ownership. Her coot was a college boy with a tall orange mohawk. My coot is a pierced-up punk.
We dated for a couple months in spring, but we had to break up when I left town.
He left Colorado and went back to Maryland. But, because the town he’s from is apparently a poisonous environment, he left. He had a job, got fired, freaked out, and flew out to Colorado four days before he had planned to visit his friends and I.
I like this punk a lot, and its awesome that he’s back in Colorado. Its really the place to be if you love pot the way he and I do. But he did something amazing with his time visiting. Sitting on one of his hippie friend’s couchs, he surfed the Internets for a job. Within 48 hours he had one, a drastic difference from his job hunt in Maryland. He is now a “puzzle technician”. Whatever that means. Then he had to fly back to Maryland, pack up his shit, and drive back to Colorado. He gave me what was left of the Lemon G, which I plan on smoking later.
The last week and a half we crashed on the futon of a faggot friend of ours. His life was shoved into duffle bags in the back seat of his Ford Focus. We bought an ounce, smoked, and watched Archer while he hunted for an apartment, having clandestine sex.
Why am I telling this to the hordes of the Internet? No idea. Perhaps because I want to share my happiness with someone. After all, you can’t expect a real-world person to understand when you say, “He’s my coot.”
Its only a few short weeks before I can see him again. I’m experiencing a withdrawal from oxytocin, which all musical artists experience before they write a love song. If I so much as strum a guitar, I want you guys to shoot me.