The Dude

Some people call them vices. Some people call them coping mechanisms. Tomato, tomahto, if you ask me. Does anyone employ a coping mechanism that is wholly altruistic? Even the people carrying around a yoga mat 24/7 are trying to portray a certain image.

My coping mechanisms are pretty standard. As a true Midwesterner, I repress a lot. I drink a lot of cheap wine. I curse a lot. I play electronic Yahtzee. Apparently, I even grind my teeth at night and my dentist thinks I need a $700 mouth guard.

Lately, as the chaos in my household has reached a terrifying level thanks to a new puppy named Roosevelt Grier (lovingly referred to simply as “Rosey”, or sometimes “You Asshole”), I have been questioning my mechanisms, my vices, and everything I thought to be true about myself.


Roosevelt, the origin of my existential crisis. 

All of this has brought The Dude to the front of my mind. How does The Dude cope with life? He makes himself a White Russian. If there isn’t any cream, he uses milk. If there isn’t any milk, he uses powdered creamer. If there isn’t any powdered creamer, he goes bowling.

Being lactose intolerant, I can’t really employ his methods. I can, however, channel his vibe. I can aspire to be mellow, to go with the flow, to walk around in a bath robe regardless of my surroundings.

Thus, I present to you The Dude, stitched with love and awe. Will I ever reach his level of not giving a shit? Probably not, but I sure as hell am going to try.



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