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my keyboard is filthy. I smoke in my room, so I understand the dust. but there's a lot of, for lack of better word, schmutz on the g key. ctrl, alt and delete have ten-point match fingerprints on them. I should probably get a can of compressed air. but I know I would blow it on my hand to watch the dimple form. or use it get the wax lodged in my ear out. regardless, I'll use it for unintended purposes. for some reason, there's some resistance when I press f. ah, problem solved. I thought that was a pretzel.
I was five when I lost my blanket. at the liquor store. my grandmamma "needed" cognac. must've lost it near the schnapps. I thought they were fruit juices and almost stood out of the kiddie seat in the shopping cart. she needed a lot of cognac.
I didn't realize it's absence until we got home. my parent's called the store. no luck. I cried myself to sleep. didn't ride my bike for over a week. so the answer to your question, friend, is yes; I drink because I do hope to find someone at the bottom of this bottle.
last Friday of summer. last ridiculo-happyhour. it differs from a regular happy hour because it starts out roughly three hours earlier. everyone who goes gets out around three on Fridays. today, because of labor day, we get out at two. to make things drunker, we start out at McLinchey's, where beer prices have been frozen since the reagan administration. the first one. they serve hotdogs so they can stay open on sundays. we order twenty. it only cost us who gives a shit at this point. we decide if we could bottle drunk and sell it, we would buy it.
I cannot move. for the first time since middle school, I played kickball. we won, but my musculature is the cincinnati bengals. to add ache to throb, I danced and danced and danced until four am. my sex muscles hurt. I wasn't even humping. unless you count the couch. there were a few girls at the bbq I would have liked to hump. but I don't make the humping calls ‘round these parts. didn't help that I didn't say more than five words to the one I really wanted. I wouldn't normally be attracted to her. but she's super slinky.
it's three thirty. I just finished throwing up. and pooping. in that order. I don't blame the drink. blame falls squarely on the pork. when we grill, we do so without regard to cross contamination. for appetizers, there were burgers and dogs, with bacon for flavor. I discovered bacon and coca-cola are two great tastes that taste fantastic together. marinated flank followed. as those fats mingled, we dry rubbed the pig loin. spices slathered on animal thigh a centimeter thick. I swore I heard it squeal as it sizzled away. it must have been a curse on my intestinal track.
my joints still ache. my bowels haven't fully healed from the pork from hell. when I first woke at nine, I made a decision to rise when my body said okay. it didn't speak up until after two. not one good labor day marathon. so I settled for seinfeld. I checked in to law & order from time to time. I ate as much fiber and protein as my stomach would allow. I thought of the stuff I wanted to do. most them required that I do the only thing I didn't want to do. and that thing was showering.
the new real world came on tonight. they filmed it where I live. lame. the girl with big boobs is pegged as the sexy one. attractive doesn't mean sexy. nothing was going on in this girls eyes. like staring at a bug zapper. nothing about the cast is interesting. just the gay dude, the black due (who is gay too), the two suburban fishes out of water, the drama queen and the innocent. remember when they real casted people with shit going on? like writers, actors and musicians? remember when they seemed much, much older too? maybe that's just me.
a year ago today, I moved to California. two weeks later, I was in philadelphia living with my grandmother. I'll get to that later. my old girlfriend/best friend moved to los angeles in the winter of 2003. I visited her in the spring and decided California was the right fit. I saved up some cash, gave up my job and apartment and got some new tires on my ‘95 Saturn. my friends roasted me at my old roommate's new place the weekend before I left. they said the most nasty and honest things. I love them. and fuck them all.
you know something.
sometimes I think about calling you.
usually when it's raining.
when four cups of coffee aren't quite enough.
when two packs of cigarettes just won't cut it.
when my boss leaves me seventeen messages, all regarding the same thing.
when I just end up fixing myself a bowl of count chocula.
when I have no money or clean clothes.
when all I want is someone to lie next to me on the couch
watch tv with me
even if it's star trek
and tell me everything's gonna be okay.
but I never do.
and it never is.
I've been free of anti-depressants for about six months now. I was prescribed celexa due to a sleeping disorder. I went to a sleep clinic to see why my sleep cycles were irregular. I knew damn well why. I was depressed. I just wanted a physical excuse. if I went to a psychiatrist, that would've been admitting something was wrong with me. a year ago, after popping 20mgs a day for 18 months, I started to feel nothing. no sadness, but zero joy. I quit. then the flashes of orange light started. it was at it's worst when I drove.
my friend, who works as a psychiatric nurse, recommended halving the pills. after taking 10mgs for two weeks, I was to take a quarter pill one day a week. every week from then on, I was supposed to increase the amount of days I took a quarter pill. when I got up to seven quarters a week, I had to skip a day. then two. eventually freedom.
here I am, not sleeping well. again. I gained 20 pounds, all in McDonald's and reece's cups. carb/protein combos supposedly increase production of serotonin. yeah, sure. I was now fat and fucking miserable.
but it wasn't my fault. again, something wrong for a physical reason. I had a double chin and my pants were beyond snug . Solution? grow a beard and get a new wardrobe. or join a gym. so, for $35 a month, I ran my way to looser fitting jeans and a happier me. exercise increases serotonin production. yeah, right. down to 165 and looking marvelous. however, I still don't feel marvelous. I do feel good when I'm with friends. but I write, so I'm forced to hang out with silence and his friend gloom more than I'd like to.
it doesn't help that sex hasn't come my way in sometime. here's a hint: remember when there were troops only in Afghanistan? well, fuck you. honestly, I haven't been pursuing. part of my slide was due to getting in relationships just for tail. they fell, I didn't. when I stumbled into love, she was just looking for tail. I then rekindled an old flame. I loved her; the first time, round two and still. wasn't in the cards though. I decided then that I was too damaged to inflict myself on anyone. but if anyone wanted pathos … no takers.
I have female friends. a lot. haven't slept with a single one. don't want to either, but …. they're all either girlfriends of friends/people I genuinely respect or girls I‘ve known for over a decade. one of them falls into both these camps. don't want to fuck her. she's attractive, arty and quick-witted. why not? I remember the frizzy hair and braces and say "nah." she doesn't want to do me either. she's told me as much. where's the rub? I'd like to think I still could, even if it isn't desirable. you want to climb mountains cause they're there.
i spent sunday night playing a video called insanaquarium. you see, you start out with two fish. you have to keep feeding them until they grow. when they grow big enough, they start shitting out silver coins (i'm not kidding either). you then collect the money and use it to buy more fish and better food, which allows your fish to grow faster and larger with the ability to shit out gold coins. when you get to this level, you have to save up enough money to buy pieces of eggs. you need three pieces to form a completed egg.
when a full egg is formed, it hatches and turns into a pet. pets such as preggo, the always knocked-up cuttlefish, and meridia, the mermaid whose songs induce your fish to shit more money. to add a level of difficulty, aliens from the fifth dimension (i kid you not) appear in your fish tank to eat your money-shitting fish. after five and half hours and half a pack of cigarettes, realized i could've spent that time dancing my dick off. we can not allow this to happen again. sunday, we dance until two am. then, two words for you: pancakes.
From the mind of Jonnie:
Since no one bothered to come to "Beginner's Knitting: The Undiscovered Country" last week, I thought I'd take this opportunity to invite you to Tuesday's class:
"Hot Glue Guns: The New Wild West"
I wanted to have it at high noon but I have work so it's at high 7. Its gonna be fun; we're going to be making shoe-box saloons, with life-like whorehouse rooms upstairs. And by life like I mean you can get your dick sucked up there if you're so inclined. Hope you come. It'll be tons of fun. Bring tongue depressors.
I had two dreams about my roommate Denise last week. In the first one, she had tattoos covering her arms and some on her neck. very detailed and colorful. she told me the story behind each one. in dream II, we were clothes shopping and I helped her pick out a new outfit, which was one she already had. we then went to her parent's house, which was a north philly squat house. her dad looked like mr. rodgers. I wonder what they meant. oh yeah, we banged in both . twice in the sequel. once in front of her dad.
I don't think I'm in love with her. that was never an option. it's been almost three years since we met. I was in rapture with someone. "cute girl," I thought. add in a roommate/close friend salivating over her, it's was a no-no from hello. the whirlwind I was caught in died down a few months later and the roommate struck out. being single, I though maybe. nope. she became attached to the hip of my ex. I resented her for that. in the throws of disdain, I took up with another. when that fell apart, I thought maybe now.
wrong again. but there was a chance. it was winter. she had started seeing someone, but it wasn't serious yet. by this point, we were on speaking terms and I was learning things about her. more specifically, liking what I was learning. one night, I thought I could. she asked me to a party. she knew three people. I knew two people. we talked, laughed and drank our way to boredom with those people. I walked her home, gave her hug and thought of leaning in. I settled for her warm breath on my neck. I settled for her friendship.
fast forward two years. I'm living with her. though not sleeping with her. someone else takes care of that. same guy she had started seeing way back when. they're happy, I suppose. I can never really tell that sort of thing. I've seen what the fuck is wrong with you fights. I've seen boo boo kissy face and grabby pants passion. I've seen yeah I'm really not so sure boredom. I've seen I can't imagine anyone else but you laughter. I've felt could've been me if I'd just put my head forward and closed my eyes jealousy all the while.
it really was a beautiful wedding. it's just a shame it happened on the day of the apocalypse. true, the church service would have run more smoothly without the choirs of angles thwarting the minions of the underworld while you nephew gave the first reading. but I think the photographer got a nice shot of your grandmom right before she joined the rapture. the food was bit cold at first, but the pillars of flame shooting out of the floor really worked wonders. I know we have to endure the war of the anti-christ, but boy did you look lovely.
things I have heard that don't mean anything to me:
"go to hell"- I will, right after I get back from la-la land.
"I‘m still a virgin because the word of god says there shall be no sex before marriage"- santa promised me a puppy for 13 consecutive Christmases. looks like neither of us have gotten any tail.
"god bless you"- may the force be with you. live long and prosper while you're at it.
"the lord works in mysterious ways" - superman can't fly when green kryptonite is around.
"I love you."- you need to get out more, toots.
a good friend of mine got married. they met at a meat-market two years ago. they spent $29,000 for one day. he asked me to serve as an usher. I did my best. damn I looked magnificent in a $135 rented tux. weddings are not good places to meet women, despite what you momma told you. all the bridesmaids were either married, engaged or dead, as was the case with my partner. don't think we said more than "pass the sugar" to each other. she looked a bit like marylyn manson, without trying mind you. I was hoping for Shirley.
the rest of the bride's friends were also involved. or zombies. some both. that left aunts and cousins, who were either way too young (giggling with disbelief as the bartender served them) or too old (fantasying the belief that the bartender should card them) for my 21 to 28-year-old tastes. okay, maybe 30. I am running out of options. most women in my preferred demographic are in line with most of this wedding's attendees. by 30 ,most unattached women have the lowered expectations that heartbreak and biology often accompany. the groom's cousin was cute. she didn't speak much English.
I did catch the garter belt. honestly, it landed at my feet. I just bent down and grabbed it. I thought about letting it go to someone else because of the girl who caught the bouquet . she was cute, but I could tell the size-four bride's garter would not easily slide up the leg of someone who pretends her way into a size 12. I got an inch above her knee when I hit the wall. she cried "keep going." I said I would but the garter would have to stay put. she was drunk enough to let me.
it's almost October and it's still hot. I though I could get away with not having the air conditioner on last night. when I woke this morning, I was heat sick. throwing up acrid streams of soupy mucous. also with a hive on my jaw. I have the air on high tonight. but I know I'll wake with a/c sinus clog. the remnants of a hurricane are supposed to sweep by tomorrow. maybe she'll bring fall with her. and then finally, I can remove this hunk of junk from my only window and breathe the foul city air once again.
I went in my room as soon as I got home from work. I used the bathroom, came back in and my ceiling was leaking. right above my computer and cds. there was water everywhere; all over my keyborad, my monitor, my dresser. what's left of hurricane jeane pummeled Philadelphia today and I got a leaky roof. yah. the landlord just patched it too. apparently only enough to stop the leak in the bathroom. all he could say was "there's an old Kentucky saying, ‘can't fix it when it's raining and when it's dry it don't leak.'" fuck you pal.
home is where the heart is. it's also the place where they send your bills. most people like going home. those are the people with someone waiting for them to ask them about their day. or cat to lie on their belly. or a dog to lick their feet. I don't speak that language. bills wait for me at home. or something broken. or leaking. or needing washing. makes you want to stay at work. at least the bills that come in aren't my responsibility. and if something's broken, complaints get it fixed not actual work. I need to sleep.
Q: What of the girl at the party who will fuck anyone? It's been awhile since I've seen a woman's privates. Is going for the girl with the reputation the thing to do?
A: Absolutely not. First, where's the challenge? I know a guy who's only done it with the washy-washies in Chinatown. he's done this every month or since he was 19. in my eyes he's still a virgin. the real fun is figuring out how to get a girl to want to go to bed with you. also, what if she shoots you down? how sorry are you?
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