Spoke to you on the phone this afternoon

Night you’re time.  Or your time.  Afraid I said too much.  Big fat smelly guy alert.  Afraid that I gave myself too much away.  Opened up to a fatal blow.  At least if I were to use literary form.  Though my dream last night did scare me.  Deeply.  Almost physically.  And just this moment I remember.  Vaguely.  A dream I had several years ago.  In Richmond.  About you.  And a baby carriage.  A hope.  A fear.  A premonition.  Who knows?  Especially with a complete lack of details now.  I did remember writing down a note on the dream, because of its vividness.  When I get home I’ll see if I can find that note.  Probably not.  But I do save most everything.  Every scribble like it’s a deposit in a blood bank.  And it is.  Role playing games.  Make me sick to my stomach.  Petty escapism.  If you’re going to do something, then do it right.  Nothing petty.  That’s a cop out.  Petty is lowest common denominator.  For the unimaginative.  The feeble minded and feeble willed.  And I’m neither.  I hope.  But, delusions would not be the newest fad.  Pump Friction.  Would I move back to New England.  A startling thought.  New this morning.  Not the ideal place.  Not a comfort zone.  But, that’s not taking you into account.  Not taking my new life into account.  My first taste of stability.  The fears and monsters of the area would surely be diminished, if not destroyed now.  Do I sound like I’m trying to talk myself into New England?  Maybe I am.  Feels like it to me.  But, then again, I’ve been wrong before.  Imagine if you will.  And not religion, too.  What are you trying to say?  Suspenders and a belt is back.  Image limited.  Wallet chain.  White t-shirt.  Boots.  Shaved head.  Intellect in reverse proportion to image presented.  It only comes around every 9000 years.  Maybe next time.  Played Trivial Pursuit this afternoon with people from the coffee house.  I the man.  I the man.  I got a lecture the other day about saying I’M SORRY.  Because I’m not sorry.  In the pathetic sense.  I am not a sorry person, a pathetic person.  I should, above all people, be aware of what it is I’m saying.  Connotation and denotation.  That whole writer thing reaching up and biting me in the ass.  Thank god I’m a waiter on the side.  Actually, if only I wasn’t.  If I actually had the time to write.  The leisure.  Lie-sure.  As much as is gained by working, ten times as much is lost.  In times inspiration has to pass by.  In experiences put off or never entered into.  In routine  Routine and writing work in opposition  At least my writing.  Live writing.  Life flows.  Pulses.  Explodes.  To limit it to time and form is to straight jacket life.  To break the legs of what you’re trying to bring to the page.  Fits and starts.  Like every subject.  Brooding boy is her on his image motorcycle.  Still no date.  That’s a guy with no personality.  Time to fetch yesterday’s paper.  Missed Foxtrot.  Hope it’s in the comics out there.  It’s very drugged.  Off, but back soon.

Back.  Miss me?  Of course you did.  Then, who wouldn’t?  Even the billions who don’t know me, know their lives are empty.  That vague, nebulous, unimaginable emptiness of soul.  Let me fill your hole.  Oh my god I look like Stevie Nicks.  Must be Mary.  Isn’t it somewhat sad, when bib boobs are your best recommendation?  Peanut butter cookie.  I hear it calling my name.  Maybe I need to change my medication.  Or begin enjoying it more.  Start making sense.  What state has the most blondes?  Bleached, or otherwise.  Like wow.  You still can’t have my Bud Light.  Here’s a thought.  There it goes.  Wave bye bye.  Maybe bowling.  Or pool.  Surfer hunting.  Like wow.  Mmmmm food.  Time to eat the cookie. Cooookie.  Cookie Monster.  Barney.  Big Bird.  Larry.  Fife.  Barney.  Again.  You only live twice.  But only when a spy loves you.  Or was that when you’re a spy in the house of love?  Or Love Canal.  Sweater girl.  Sweaty girl.  Not a bad thing.  Depending on the situation.  Bring me to the map room.  Free fall fun.  I just don’t understand.  Thank god, 12 years after 1984, I still don’t have a big brother.  Though my little brother is bigger than me.  But I’m not sure that’s the point.  Your stomach should never stick out farther than your boobs when you stand up straight.  Pregnancy excepted.  A look of fear.  Here comes the pick up routine.  More painful than gymnastics gone bad.  Or synchronized swimming.  Please explain to me how that became considered a sport.  Olympic, no less.  Bridge’ll probably be next.  Naked chicks.  Not a bad thing.  Unless it’s Ken Sullivan.  Ken Sullivan.  Both set up, and punch line.  What did the Hindu priest say to the hot dog vendor?  WOULD YOU PUT THAT UP MY ASS, PLEASE?  Or maybe that was the Catholic priest.  I can never remember.  Drugs you know.  And would you introduce me?  Giggles are humor hiccups.  Sorry.  Women shouting my name.  Normally not a bad thing.  Except they’re carrying pitchforks and torches.  Bang on the castle door.  What exactly is a crumpet?  Not fade away.  Buddy Holly.  Not a very good waiter.  That’s what happens after you plummet to your death with someone named Big Bopper.  Kill the marines.  Or at least give them a personality transplant.  Ego reductions.  London is not a country.  The caffeind is tearing up my stomach.  My empty stomach.  Been on the move all day.  No time for eats. Too skinny.  Too vacant.  She is too happy.  Must be my cynical Boston nature, but euphoria makes me suspicious.  And so there it is.  What?  No one knows.  The actual name of god.  The Word.  I think it’s Fred.  Think of god’s ego if he demands rituals attributed to him.  Brooding guy alert.  Pride is a vice, if not a sin.  One of the seven Brad Pitt sins.  did you know that he thinks Pittsburgh is named for him?  Maybe armpits.  Ireland.  The land of ire.  What exactly does that mean?  Nice butt.  But crazy redhead.

So, I’m back again.  Too often perhaps.  But I didn’t want to leave you with such nonsense and stupidity.  then again you should be very used to nonsense and stupidity from me.  One of my charms.  Maybe what I’m best at.  Very fragrant woman just came in.  Watched the Red Sox lose to the Braves 8-0 this morning.  For this, I got up early?  Missing out on all the fun again.  Just have to make my own fun, to catch up.  The cost of everything.  The value of nothing.  Youth.  Great moments in the obvious.  The artist of the month is here to take down her paintings.  They are ugly as hell.  Not ugly as sin.  Sin is quite often quite beautiful.  Really bad dyed red hair and Birkenstocks.  Anorexia girl is here for her shift.  Not insults.  Insights.  Anything that is askew is a hint as to why.  In the smallest detail disjointed, is everything.  Function is dysfunction.  Dysfunction in function.  Being in nothingness.  Oh, it suddenly got deep in here.  Hip waders anyone?  Goggles soon.  Snorkel.

Just got off work.  Later today.  Feeling like shit.  Coming down with something.  Annoying navy guy to the right, working his incompetence on another woman.  He strikes out more than Rob Deer.  Silly boy.  Sprains his arm, patting himself on his back.  In the middle of the MOST GUYS DO STUPID THINGS, BUT I’M DIFFERENT, A SENSITIVE GUY routine.  See my nuclear watch.  Exactly how many women enjoy this guy talking about how wonderful he is?  Never asking about you. Never stopping to let your respond.  We all do it.  All have our routines.  The things we say to get laid.  That we think best shows off our feathers.  Pot calling the kettle black, in an era when neither pots, nor kettles are black.  Such are the tortures of life.  Something like Chinese water torture.  In a pool of electric eels.  Watch how amazing I am.  Too bad you can’t change channels to find something interesting.  Then it would probably be like real TV.  No matter how many channels, still nothing on.  Sorry nobody home.  Feel like I’ve been writing forever tonight.  Only one page.  Experiencing the illness time warp.  The Space/Time fractured.  Broken down into slices.  Enabling you to feel as much of the illness as possible, without exploding.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  Now, it’s not.  Time to pack up.  Head home.  Medicine up.  And try to sleep it off.  Wish me luck.  Time to hit the mail with this.  Mailing Monday.  Promise.

I’ve decided

not to mail the last letter.  The info is just too old.  And you’ve heard it all by now anyways.  How’s WAAF going?  This place.  The coffee house in particular.  Southern California in general.  Is disturbing because so few really mean it.  As the trend turns.  There’s so many things I wanted to put in these pages before I sat down before them.  Now the empty lines are fear.  Not that it’s fear of you laughing at me.  You’d only laugh at my jokes.  Even when they aren’t funny.  That’s very nice of you.  But if I leave the ideas inside here they are decidedly less real.  They are merely fantasies that can be shrugged off if they are never realized.  But if I name them they attain tangibility.  They enter into the world.  And if they fail then they have the power to hurt me.  That would put you in a position to hurt me.  Something you’ve never done.  Still I’m sure I’ll work myself into telling it all anyways.  I just need to propagandize myself into courage.  Which means I’ve just spent this space building up something that needs no building up.  Like forecasting sunrise and sunset.  Giving way to widespread darkness.  Stop the presses.  When I told Robin where Blacktstone is, she could place it.  It was one of those BOY I’M STUPID moments.  More tea time.  So many desperate people here.  Castrating themselves for the attention and sympathy.  It’s 9 o’clock.  Do you know where your children are?  Still in my pants, thank god.  I’m blocked right now.  So much confusion backing me up.  Running me in circles.  Away.  Think it would be better to start again, with less distraction.  More quiet.  Inside and out.  Upside and down.  There’s too much real to say to waste the energy on being and nothingness.

Well, it’s now now, and I’m back.  Spoke to you earlier today on your way to John and Ponch.  Thank god Ken Sullivan is only part time, huh.  Only bought one of the books I wanted.  Ordered another.  Then off to the coffee house, early enough to get my favorite seat.  The Moose memorial table.  If I happen to get here and the table is taken already, people will come to tell me when the person leaves, so I can take my rightful place.  Or at least my habitual seat.  It’s the best seat.  I am in position to see and hear all but one other table here.  An observation post of some sort.  Gathering stories.  Watching humanity.  And it’s artificial ingredients.  It may not make you fat, but it’ll give you cancer.  And I don’t mean the birth sign.  Or crabs.  Fade in.  Fade out.  Or not.  This is once in a century.  Maybe once in a millennium now that the brain chemistry has been stabilized.  You better get while the getting is good.  I don’t have too many good years left before you’ll have to put me out to pasture.  But I’ll let you keep the boots.  Now for a bit of levity, and proof of my powers.  You know that girl that wants me.  Well, I think she’s gone from my case.  But that’s besides the point.  She has this friend Darren.  I’ve never liked him.  That’s besides the point too.  Ever since I’ve met him I’ve been uncomfortable around him.  That eighth sense feeling that he was hiding something.  Trying desperately to keep us from finding something about him.  After a couple of meetings I announced to the girls that Darren was gay.  That was his desperate secret.  The announcement was greeted with disbelief and ridicule.  All great ideas.  Until this past Friday.  The girls came into see me at work.  When are you going to come in to see me at work?  Anyways.  Just before they left, Christy, that’s the girl who has sticky thighs for me, told me that Darren had admitted the other day that he has homosexual desires.  That he might be gay.  Vindication.  Then he also said that all men who masturbate are gay.  Absurdity.  That would make every man I know gay.  And I’ll be damned honest. I’m real hungry.  Maybe time to go home and make dinner soon.  Christy has enormous breasts.  But that’s about it as far as anything that I find appealing about her.  So, what’s all this serious pseudo-important muck I have to tell you?  Let’s consider the current usage of the term alternative.  God I love boobs.  Sorry distracted.  Everything I have to tell you is based on the assumption that you are serious in your desire for me to come back east.  That it’s not just a pleasant complimentary line you like to throw out at me.   If I’m wrong, oh well.  What would be the loss?  And you are 3000 or more miles away.  Our relationship has lasted, and maybe flourished, after so long and so much that this mistake and following confessions could hardly sink us.  I hope.  Then again it could be a correct assumption.  Fate smiles sometimes too.  First, after years, I may have figured it out.  The fade in fade out.  When I was in North Adams I was too young.  Lame excuse, I’m sure.  But, that’s not it.  What it comes down to , was that when I knew you, I’d never had a relationship that had both physical and emotional intimacy.  On or the other.  Never both together.  And it scared the shit out of me.  Fade out.  I should have stuck with it.  Should have worked on the more difficult relationship, rather than float through the easy ones.  Now I’ve lived through, and destroyed, my first relationship with both.  Though it took months to establish both.  So I’m more prepared for a relationship with you.  Fade in.  Those things that kept bringing me back are pulling at me again.  Swimming upstream is a bad analogy.  I guess you could say that you scared me.  And you did.  In a most constructive way.  Though it took me years to figure that out.  Still hungry after all these years.  And I don’t look like Tom Petty.  Minor miracles.  So.  What now?  What do I want?  What do you want?  Are they compatible? Even in theory?  Never mind practice.  Here’s my end.  And I do have one hell of a cute ass.  I want you.  I want to try us again.  To see if it’ll really work.  Being in the same time zone and everything.  While the line may be considerably premature, it is not without base that I tell you that I would marry you.  Hell, I’m willing to move back across the country to be with you.  To uproot my first taste of stability.  Maybe ever.  I can’t believe I just told you that.  Not only have I gone way out on a limb.  I’m jumping up and down on it.  Without a net.  Someone has made me suddenly brave.  Though it has gotten much closer to dinner time.  Marvin Hamlisch.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, wasting time.  Spilling filler to distract you.  But that’s why I’d move back east.  To be with you.  To try what I ran out on, so long ago.  The major problem.  Excepting the concern about whether you’re really interested.  Is financial.  That is overcome in time, though.  Temporary hurdle.  Money comes in faster than it goes out when I’m working.  And the money here is good.  Then it becomes an issue of logistics.  Where and how.  To be honest.  It’s not a joke about not wanting to go back to New England.  It’s barely shy of a phobia.  That’s why I offered up Richmond as an option.  While I’m not anxious to for some of the baggage that would come with moving back there, it fits well in many ways.  There is one desire I’d like to fill before moving across the country again.  I’d like you to come out here for a visit, to see how it is being in the same room again after so long.  Is it still there?  To move now would be to be with you, so I’d like to know before packing, that it won’t be an absolute disaster from the word go.  To know that we can be alone in the same room.  Now I’m not going to vouch for our behavior when we do get alone.  Some laws of both Nature and legislation may be in danger.  But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  Maybe if you don’t want to come here, we could meet in Richmond.  If that’s where you want to go, then you should probably see the place before moving in.  I think that’s enough exposure for one sitting.  Besides the noise is rising and the hunger is expanding.  But before this hits the mailbox, I want to tell you why I want this.  Want you.  I will try my damnedest not to have it sound like an absurd accounting.  Purely pro vs con listing.  It’s not, it’s desire.  I have spent many hours and weeks analyzing lately so I have a fleeting grasp of my motives, which may make my desire sound like a calculation.  Then again, it could all be a backwards rationalization.  Starting with the conclusion, and trying to find the reasons that fit.  More of that later.  After dinner.  Before bed.

Back.  Not last night, though.  This afternoon.  Passed out after dinner.  I can hear the guy downstairs from me snoring.  Not now, but when he’s sleeping.  And the woman next to me yelling at, and beating, her baby, for crying.  Seen, but not heard, I guess.  Life in the modern world.  Or post-modern.  Now, someone please explain that term to me.  It defies logic.  Anyways.  Computer geek at the counter now.  I waited on him at work the other night.  he left a 95 cent tip on a credit card.  More silliness from the messy masses.  Word games.  Fun fun fun.  Until daddy took the thesaurus away.  Maybe I should invest in one sometime.  Ken Sullivan.  Just can’t get over it.  And luckily, I don’t have to.  Do me a favor, and tell him that we’re moving to Virginia and getting married.  Tell him anything to shock him.  Make him the scarred little momma’s boy that he is.  Radio geek.  Little Napoleon.  Self importance through standing at the elbow of people of importance.  Oh, piss boy.  Not many kissed ass as well as he did.  And I can only imagine that practice has made him better.  A pro.  Hungry all the time.  War all the time.  Time all the time.  Even when it’s at a stand still.  What are you trying to say?  I’m addicted to computer games.  Is it me, or are the kids we beat up in school are now running the country?  Teh computer seems to have created more people that need to get out of the house more often.  A worse abomination than TV.  Cybersex.  Virtual reality.  There’s no need for other people any more.  The most dangerous prison is the one where you can’t see the walls.  In the name of god and country.  Sometimes I wonder.  Sometimes I wander.  Sometimes I take a shit.  Doesn’t make much difference since you never know what comes next.  You just pray that it comes soon and that you don’t get it in your eye.  Just imagine.  It’s the best tool you’ve got.  But I didn’t come here to run on at the pen.  Though it may be what I do best.  I Love this game.  So, why do I want to be back with you again, after not having been in the same room with you in so long?  There’s no question about my being attracted to you.  Though, I’d like you to send me a picture, or two dozen, of you.  Preferably naked.  Thinking of me.  Then again, aren’t you always thinking of me when you’re naked?  Anyways.  Back to reality.  But attraction alone wouldn’t be enough to get me to move back across the country.  What I’d move back for is the thing that happened because of our separation.  The intimacy we gained through being limited to phone conversations.  There isn’t a level of emotion that I haven’t touched with you.  That I don’t feel comfortable with you.  Laugh.  Cry.  Play.  Work.  Write.  Think.  Talk.  I don’t have to hide anything from you.  I feel at home with you.  More than that.  You push me.  Push me to push myself.  To right.  Even to not have to write.  To be comfortable enough with myself that I don’t need to create this second world to reconcile myself with my failures.  Because there are no failures with you.  Only adventures.  If we lived close, we’d be seeing each other.  So, why not make that possible?  Who in the world would be better than us?  And remember, I’m nothing if not stupid.  And I love stories.  If I can’t write them, I want to at least live them.  So, tell me what I have to do.

Now, that’s a loaded request, if I ever heard one.  Speaking of loaded.  Was that a guy or a girl?  And does it matter?

It’s the next day again.  Friday.  Distractions abound.  Have to go to work in a couple of hours.  It feels strange to have not worked in two days.  Hopefully tonight will be better that the last night I worked.  The rain ruined everyone’s mood.  Amazing what rain will do to easy going Southern Califorinans.  Boy they get crabby.  Like dogs left in the rain and kicked.  Spoiled children.  The sun doesn’t like me.  And neither do I.  But that’s a thought for another moment.  Speaking of other moments.  Oh, nothing.  Just filler.  Don’t step on my blue suede shoes.  Stay off them, you hear.  Specially while I do the twist.  In the jailhouse on lonely street.  Mixed metaphors.  Mixed musicians.  Mixed drinks.  Praying to the porcelain god.  Doodoo.  Kuka. Poopoo.  Peepee.  Weewee.  Woowoo.  Moomoo.  Choochoo.  I think I can.  I think I can.  Neurotransmitter surfing.  Aqua en fuego.  Have I mentioned that the only game I have here is Scrabble?  Need Monopoly.  A deck of cards.  Show and tell tonight at work.  Saturday is truth or dare.  Oh well.  The other night, two of the women I worked with threatened to hold me down and take my clothes off so they could see my tattoos.  All they’d have to do is ask.  I must be a Kennedy.  I like taking my pants off in public.  Kick out the jam.  Why not?  The trouble with tribbles.  Mission control.  The troll.  I think I dated her in high school.  10th reunion coming soon.  Sooner than expected.  Conjugated.  Constipated.  More roughage.  Cabbage.  My father is a strange man.  I wonder where he gets it.  Not to say that I’m distracted and scattered all over the place.  Who stepped on that duck?  Is that an elephant in your back yard, or is David Copperfield visiting again?  So, what’s it like?  Oh, I don’t know.  Anything.  Brain freeze.  Antifreeze.  Mr. Freeze.  Mr. Clean.  Pregnant on stick legs.  Got to be uncomfortable.  But it makes her boobs bigger.  So, it can’t be all bad.  Nibble my nipples.  Please.  And don’t stop there.  Tutti fruitti of the loom.  At least you know pregnant women put out.  Lactating again.  San Diegans to the right talking about Richmond.  Like they know.  In theory.  The same way they know real life.  Theory.  This is not real life.  Virtual existence.  Slurping tea.  Because it’s my right, as a Bostonian.  That and throwing it into the sea.  Dressing like Indians.  Cleveland Indians.  Who gets to be Jack McDowell?  The mashed potato.  Skin on, or skin off?  Wax on.  Wax off.  Someone slipped me the dribble lip again.  Great balls of fire.  Maybe that’s why one marries a 12 year old cousin.  Show me some skin.  What do you think?  Leave the 70s where they are.  Buried.  Hopefully in an unmarked pauper’s grave.  That may be it for now.  I’ve run out of steam, and it’s about time to get ready to get ready for work.  Until tonight.  In my dreams, or on paper.  Same deal.

Back where I started.  Wondering why apathy spends so much time in front of the mirror.  Check the hair.  The outfit.  Product presentation.  That’s what sells.  Maybe I’m just getting old.  Seems like a sleepwalking oxymoron to me.  But I’ve been wrong before.  Maybe.  The book’s not closed yet.  Thank god.  I’m so tired.  Days off are the worst for tired.  Nothing to get the juices up about.  Thin punk suspenders and studded leather rock belt.  Pick one genre, please.  Stick with it.  Mean it.  Leave me alone.  Woman in front of me buying a house.  Better than insurance, I suppose.  She’s ugly, alone, and insecure.  Sign me up.  Life isn’t like Star Trek.  Ken Sullivan.  Just can’t get over it.  At least I don’t have to deal with it.  Maybe he’ll be best man at our wedding.  Or piss boy.  Or the invitation might get lost in the mail.  Boobs.  god bless them.  Already did.  People without lives latching on.  People without purpose trying not to drown.  I want to go into some diatribe about unwanted kittys.  But the people I’d like to lead to the backyard bucket aren’t worth the energy.  Full of shit.  Me or them.  Don’t know.  Don’t matter.  Saw both shrinks Monday.  Clean bill of health.  So to speak.  Don’t see one anymore, unless depression recurs.  The other see in two months to make sure the medication is still effective.  Man to my right just had a chill.  Or a spasm.  Spasm is more interesting.  He had a spasm.  Hear the whip cream?  Whip cream is a good thing.  Smile somebody loves you.  And I’m going to kill him for it.  What’s the frequency Kenneth?  Sullivan.  The fun never ends.  Reregister the car next week.  Fun at the DMV.  Rather the RMV.  Stop talking about yourself.  You’re not that interesting.  Guy behind me wondering aloud why the section of the paper he wants, is gone.  Go get the paper.  Spend the 50 cents to make yourself happy.  This pen is pissing me off.  Not enough ink out the end.  Not flowing the way it should.  Time to buy some blue suede shoes.  Spent $90 on the car today.  At Jiffy Lube.  Oil change.  Fuel injector cleaning.  New gasket.  Runs much better now.  Better than new.  Or when I got it as new.  Robin Hood boots and vinyl pants.  Maybe he should see a doctor about that.  Trivial pursuit games this afternoon.  Lost both, but I was seriously outgunned.  And opposed by people who cared about winning.  I’m just curious.  Alice Cooper was goth way before Robert Smith and the trends.  How can someone let themselves get so fat?  Unless it’s a biological necessity.  Like diabetes.  I like my penis.  But I wish someone else would.  I think my relationship with myself is at a crossroads.  It’s getting stagnant.  I may have to break up with myself.  Try to let myself down easy.  Chilly out tonight.  Back to jacket time.  Time to pee.  I’ll think of you while I shake.  Encountered big fat smelly guy while waiting for the bathroom  Just wondering what is the proper toilet seat etiquette in a unisex public bathroom.  Write Miss Manners.  This place is so incestuous.  And parasitic at the same time.  Inbreeding while trying to kill itself off.  Sometimes you have to wonder.  Sometimes you don’t.  Because you’re better off not knowing.  And sometimes, knowing makes me remember why I did drugs.  Or why I should again.  Or why I envy Boo Radley.  I may not like cops personally a lot.  Or even professionally, most of the time.  But I have to respect them.  Their willingness to die for my safety.  Even if they are often merely officially sanctioned nazi stormtroopers.  Much like marines.  Little Napoleons.  Little Napoleon now that would be something to see.  If you could actually see him.  Too much time and energy spent on role playing games.  Creating characters.  Scott just stopped by and we spent time trying to offend everyone around us.  It worked.  Big fat smelly guy in line for coffee refill.  Hunger.  Felix Unger.  Katie has told me that I have to be the guinea pig for this Mexican restaurant we were told about.  Thanks.  My gas will be on her conscience.  Brooding guy is back.  He should give me his motorcycle.  Even though it is just a Honda.  He surely doesn’t need it.  Except to get laid.  And it’s not even working.  Boobs everywhere.  Life is good.  And you can have my Bud Light.  Do you see older people and try to see them in high school and college?  Who were they like that you went to school with?  Tall guy alert.  Image goatee alert.  At least I don’t look like Tom Petty.  Those are the breaks.  He’s putting sugar in a berry tea.

Back again.  One last short installment.  Have to move on, and write some other people.  Why not.  Crazy cousin Jen wanted to know what I was doing tonight.  Busy.  Sorry.  Busy by myself.  Better than the option she offered.  Busy with her.  Big fat smelly guy is back tonight.  Had Chinese for meal at 4 today.  Starving now at 7.  Laszlo is here now.  Marine who wishes he wasn’t.  Geek who wishes he wasn’t.  Plain old wishes he wasn’t.  Whatever he is.  Down a whole bottle of Pepto.  Needed it.  I have heartburn.  From what?  Too much sperm?  I don’t know, but it was funny.  There’s a ferris wheel at Walmart.  Katie’s here now to enjoy the love of work.  But, it’s my night off.  Then five nights running.  And I do mean running.  I’m afraid to drink my tea.  Chai tea, without the milk and honey.  Could be scary.  Laszlo is lost.  Doesn’t know what to do with himself when there’s no one to pay attention to him.  To pet the 3 year old in him.  The tea smells good at least.  Everyone is gay.  Everyone except me.  Or is it that they’re all afraid of their penises?  Tea’s not so bad.  Still too hot to be positive.  What nerve connects the penis to the ego?  Learning to fly.  I think I like this tea.  I may not sleep for a week though.  Yeah, right.  It was not sleeping that brought me to seeing a shrink.  60 ways to leave your lover.  I’ve added a top 10.  I’m sexy in overalls.  Well if I ever wore them, I would be.  Overalls and nothing else.  Coffee house down the road called Jitters.  Ain’t that the truth.  Guy eating KFC in the corner.  Hasn’t bought anything from here.  Sex drugs and cinnamon toast.  Cinnamon roll.  I do like this tea.  Though I’ll probably be wired like New York city.  But I’m more authentic, and taste better than salsa made in New York City.  Image guy smoking a pipe.  Good thing murder isn’t legal.  And I don’t like being ass raped.  Not anymore, at least.  Hopefully it won’t come to blows.  What, I don’t know.  Well, this seems like as good a place as any.  Neil Young.  A man needs a maid.  To be going.  Assuming I ever had something constructive to say, it’s run out now.  So until.  Until something.  Don’t hate me because I’m stupid.  Write me soon.  Send me nude pictures.  Love me forever.  Move to Richmond with me.