So good to talk to you

To hear your voice.  You sounded happy.  Tired, but happy.  Sitting here sipping coffee.  Actually waiting for the coffee to cool enough for sipping purposes.  Morons sitting in front of me.  Talking Megadeath.  Rollercoasters.  Maybe I’m slow in the head.  But.  It still amazes me how selfimportant people can be at a coffee house.  All while never talking about anything.  Just farting out the mouth.  Metallica now.  And how hardcore they are because they remember Metallica’s first album.  How cutting edge because they were into it before the scene arrived.  Though Time has changed nothing.  Ponytail.  Facial hair.  No clue.  Oh well.  It really shouldn’t surprise me to see people proud to point of advertising about how unique they are.  If you’r not sure about how cool I am, why don’t you let me tell you.  Fuckers.  But, still good to hear from you.  Because.  And it occurs to me now that you never let someone or something else define you.  It was always just you.  Never writing checks with your mouth that your ass couldn’t cash.  You know what I mean.  So funny hearing stories here.  How you never want to start a fight.  Opposed to violence and the rest.  Then pushing people’s buttons, amazed when they react.  Because they don’t mean their rebellion or anger.  Don’t believe in it.  Just something the think they should do.  The discussion just turned into YOU KNOW WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE, BECAUSE THEY’RE THE ONES THAT SAY HI TO YOU EVERY TIME THEY SEE YOU.  A very sad statement, I think.  Is the best you can hope for, a Hallmark greeting?  Someone who says HI to you?  That’s not a friend.  That’s a stranger with courtesy.  A friend is someone who is willing to hold your hand while you walk through the darkest moments of your soul.  That’s a friend.  Every night here is a night of car stereo wars.  Hear how loud.  See what I’ve done to it today.  More non-talk.  Oh well.  But to tell the truth, I’m pretty fucking happy.  Despite the poisoned barbs.  And the hole in my stomach.  Coffee.  Cigarettes and hard liquor.  Work thing is great.  Not really.  But pretty stress free.  Money’s not great, but it works for me.  To pay bills and the like.  To eat even.  Imagine.  More stereo talk.  That’s besides the point.  As if there was one.  Now it has degenerated into puffing themselves up by insulting others.  Even if it is a bit more creative than stereo talk or the reciting of Austin Powers dialogue.  And still nothing has been said.  Oh well.  It’s not my problem.  Just background noise.  LOOK AT HOW UNIQUE I AM.  HOW ALTERNATIVE.  How nauseating.  How predictable.  It’s like street theater where the script is in the playbill.  Or is it just the summer season reruns?  Now speed limit laws talk.  Maybe you get fucked over because you set yourself up.  Then ask for it on top of that.  Car talk.  At least it hasn’t gone into drinking bragging.  JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET MY VESPA.  And you’ll still have to wait for me to care.  Surprise surprise surprise.  And a bottle of rum.  Johnny Walker.  Or Jaegermeister.  Rock on brother man.  The incest love fest is starting to break up now.  Maybe.  Hopefully.  Ugly girl.  Golf shoe face.  Small boobs.  Bad hair.  Just took stinking poop.  I walked into the after smell.  Watson and his I’M SO ARTY painted puzzle car have just pulled in.  Oh well.  Sometimes I just wonder why I don’t start doing drugs again.  I just don’t understand anymore.  As if I ever did.  Or wanted to.  Feel the hole in my stomach growling.  And I want or need a drink.  Just to numb the brain and body to the stupidity.  My superiority just amazes me sometimes.  Must we continue to talk about all our automotive/sexual fantasies?  Now engines.  Bigger tires.  Louder stereos.  That’ll never get done.  I’m gonna do this.  I’m gonna do that.  But only in my mind.  And people here think of.  Well, they’re not quite sure how to deal with me.  How to handle the poisoned barbs.  Nothing overtly personal.  But shotgun aimed.  And I’m so funny.  How do you react to a guy insulting you, when he makes you laugh doing it?  Limp dick without a clue.  My fear is that the vacuum inside will force them to implode at some point tonight.  Now the aerodynamics of trash blowing round the inside of your car when the windows are down.  Continuing to plumb depths previously unimagined.  And if you aren’t excited enough already, Andy BUT MY FRIENDS CALL ME TRIPOD BECAUSE MY PENIS IS SO BIG just showed up.  On the other hand he’ll just wander around for a little, until he realizes  that no one wants to talk to him, and he’ll go home without a fight.  HAVE YOUR FRIEND PRETEND TO HIT YOU.  I USED TO GET INTO FAKE FIGHTS IN HIGH SCHOOL ALL THE TIME.  There’s a resume builder.  Pretending to cut off the hair of the girl who sits in front of you in biology class.  Thought that went out of fashion with nap time in kindergarten.  It’s open mic night here tonight.  Scary thing.  A serious talent vacuum.  LEARNED GUITAR TO GET LAID AND IT DIDN’T WORK, SO I SHALL VENT MY ANGER ON YOU bands for the rest of the night.  No sincerity allowed.  JUST CALL ME TRIPOD has been rejected by all inside and is working his way quickly through the girls outside.  He’ll be gone soon.  Too transparently stupid.  And bad facial hair.  When it’s for no reason other than 90210.

Tonight should be a bit more sane.  For now anyways.  Not only is the ink blue.  Blew.  But I’m sitting inside, so no silly talk tonight  So let me tell you about the fun and games after I signed off last night.  Nothing.  Until I saw the, or one of the, clerks from AM/PM here.  Melissa and I would always joke with him when we went for smokes or slurpee or beer or candy.  Then Cara showed up.  We talked for awhile.  Then Carrie showed up, too.  She is Cara’s friend.  And way out of my league beautiful.  But we have had good times when we have talked, in the past.  The three of us talked.  Cara went home.  School in the morning you know.  Carrie and I went out for very late night Mexican food.  Yummy.  Both the burritos and Carrie.  Like I said though.  She’s way out of my league.  Too bad.  For me.  So fucking beautiful.  I’ve miscalculated though.  I gave her some poems to read.  Now she occasionally has that terrified WHAT THE HELL IS HE GOING TO SAY NEXT look.  When we are alone, it’s all good.  But with others around she always looks uneasy.  What next fears.  Warren, the old hippie, is outside playing some guitar.  Ivan is behind me discussing his newest fantasy invention for submarine propulsion.  And he’s not even able to pass junior college math.  At least he isn’t discussing his 3D TV virtual reality invention.  Or trying to pickup young girls in his HEY I’M 30 SOMETHING, LIVING AT HOME, AND MY MOM STILL DRESSES ME style that knocks the women dead.  Or at least wishing they were.  And so on.  Kind of feel like playing a game of chess.  Maybe when Joel gets here.  Joel is skinhead probation for inciting a riot by kicking the shit out of some Klan on video guy.  Madonna on the stereo.  Was Bon Jovi a couple of songs ago, no matter how hard I tried to deny it.  He plays chess well.  Joel, not Bon Jovi.  Though he may as well.  Or some cards.  Or some darts.  Or just with myself.  Warren makes silver jewelry by hand.  Andrea should be here tonight.  That would be good for me, too.  She is way out of my league too.  Then who isn’t?  But we have much more of a connection, than I do with Carrie.  By the way I’ve given up on wearing underwear.  Have moved to button fly jeans.  Still T-shirt and boots.  Same pair of Docs.  Remind me to get money from the ATM.  Broke.  Lenny Dykstra just came by.  Left with the paper.  Ivan you never have been laid, have you?  Well, maybe if you paid.  And I’m sure some people would say the same about me.  And they’d be as close to right as you can get.  It’s been so long, my hymen is growing back.  And I never had a hymen to start with.  What the hell.  No Doubt on now.  Burning holes in the gut.  Both No Doubt, and black coffee.  Gonna try to stay away from the smokes tonight.  Not sure though.  Your Love is Like Bad Medicine.  Gay marines having a smoke.  Of each other.  Not until later.  And if there’s any luck about tonight I’ll only have to play with myself only once.  I’M TOO COOL FOR WORDS CAR TALK BOY just arrived.  Really just very insecure.  Keep talking so no one else can show you up again.  That’s his fear.  A hangover from having moved here from England as a kid.  New kid in school, and a foreigner to boot.  The DO ANYTHING TO MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU has stuck with him.  Pretty girl and no stink in the bathroom.  Did I ever tell you that you were.  I was so in love with you that your shit was like roses.  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve said anything yet.  But damn it sounds good.  Car boy has turned talk to last night’s chess game.  Chess is big here.  For now.  Star light.  Star bright.  Kick me in the balls.  Almost like sex.  Just in the other direction.  I just really like boobs.  As if you needed me to tell you that.  Again.  Why exactly is it that after the years and miles that we are still so close, and the ones I came to Richmond with have nothing in common with me?  Why is that?  We are the ones who shouldn’t be talking.  But here we are.  And Animal Who.  Not the way I imagined the world when i loaded the truck from Mass.  Those nylons are just way too dark a shade for her legs.  Or she needs to shave.  Badly.  I think it’s the nylons.  I hope anyways.  Ivan making the WILL ANYONE TALK TO ME rounds again.  Such is life.  Not mine, thankfully.  If no one talks to me I an survive quite nicely.  Quite nicely keep myself occupied.  And a kick in the head.  Because it’s fun.  And why not?  Because.  I don’t know Who’s on first.  What’s on second.  Period.  Nice legs.  No ass though.  Not that I’m horny or anything.  Show me your tits.  Drop your pants.  Bend over, and prove to me why it’s good to be a man.  Then maybe that’s what I’ll be.  Computer geeks are invading.  The weekly trip out of the house.  Socially retarded group home field trip.  Now try talking to someone with a face, rather than a monitor.  Resistance is futile.  And so are you.  though you rule the world.  From a modem, like the wizard behind the curtain.  Drugs drugs drugs and a bottle of rum  It is Tuesday after all.  Say a toast for me.  English muffin and jam.  It up your ass.  You always had a great ass.  Though that’s besides the point.  And quite round.  time to hit up the bank for some money.  Not in the Brad sort of way though.  Sorry.  I’m off.  My rocker.  And an easy chair.  If only I could find an easy woman.

So, a couple of days later.  Early.  Sun not down yet.  And my head is threatening to explode.  Not sure why.  Hand full of Advil has done nothing, except upset my stomach.  Not quite the US beating Russia in hockey, but upsetting enough.  Have to stay awake for a couple of hours.  Then early to bed.  Been up since 530 this morning.  For no reason.  Except to piss me off.  And tomorrow is going to be.  Or should be.  A very long day.  Up smoking and drinking all night.  I hope.  Then call in sick to work.  Because I wasn’t given the day off.  Though I asked for it off.  Call in and get a paid day off.  The reading is tomorrow.  I’m more than a bit nervous.  Scared.  Excited.  It’s my chance to be a rock star.  Though I found out last night that my words.  Well.  This so beautiful that she’s way out of my league, but I want her anayways girl told me last night that she read one of my poems, and it gave her chills.  First time I’ve ever heard that.  She says I have a new fan.  I said new.  You mean I now have a fan.  Unfortunately, she won’t be at the reading.  She is on her way to San Francisco with her family for vacation.  But she did give me her number and said that if I ever wanted to do something to give her a call.  Not bad, for an ugly guy huh?  She was on Star Search when she was younger.  Dancing.  You know.  I just plain old miss having you around.  I’m…

Sorry, got stuck in a coffee house business talk with the manager here.  Good talk.  But a distraction.  And only about half an hour until home for dinner, a movie maybe before bed.  The stomach is in an uproar over the coffee cigarette thing.  Yeah, I was quitting.  But last night was angry smoking.  Pissed for no real reason.  So I smoked in an attempt to keep killing myself.  Still some smokes left, so they have to be smoked.  Waste not.  Want not.  Tomorrow night should be interesting.  Should it go as planned with the reading.  How many cigarettes will I go through?  Looking forward to the night.  And scared.  Should be tons of fun.  And possibly a very very important night in my life.  So much could change.  Fuck it.  Tomorrow is a chance to fix everything.  And a very beautiful woman gave me her number.  WHY DON’T I GIVE YOU MY NUMBER.  Made me feel good.  Same as it ever was.  Same play.  Same act.  Different scene.  Hoping to get it right sometime.  Soon would be good.  And so would dinner.  I’m off.  Again.  Still.  What’s the difference?

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