Here's To You, Miss

As lonely as I am and however seemingly content with it I may look, I do yearn to be with another. It's not something I'll declare on stage - just like with all troubles - but this is my blog so I'll go ahead and stand now for the sake of record. Plus, it really, really sucks to have felt what I felt last Friday morning. So remember this, butt-nut. Why remember it? My misery is all I've got so I tote it around like how I used to carry a box of Animal Crackers by its string handle. This one is an elephant.


You're dreaming. You're on a bed. There's a girl with you. She's fond of you. She makes her move and you are enveloped in her embrace. Her kisses.

Then you wake up.


Those 10 seconds hurt. I woke up broken. I knew that girl in the dream who loved me so. She crushed on me back in middle school. For all my troubles with women and all the years of quiet rejection by many a female smile, she stood out as the one who was kindest and most sincere. It took courage for her to let me know how she felt, which ironically became what I sought and have never received from girls before and after her.

I am weary of the flirtation game. It's an utterly perplexing Mexican Hat Dance, a drawn-out and fatiguing ritual where the obvious is ignored (just pick up the god damn hat!) and people continue to flutter their eyes and throw half-meant compliments. In my crazy and wacky world of admiration, if I like a girl, then I'll tell a girl directly how I feel. I guess that isn't enough. I have to twirl around, stick my cock out and say a few "hey baby, babies."

To that girl in the dream, I thank you. I felt like shit that morning but I'll forever remember you as the girl with the sincerity and honesty I now long for and judge every pretty face by. Here's to you, Miss K!

Demon Brain Pincher

I woke up with a scurrying sound in my left ear.

I frantically slap the side of my head, images of yesterday's pincher bug frolic on my eyes wide.

Slap. My hand strikes my ear. Slap. Slap.

Aw shit, I got that bug in my head. Or its revenge-driven brother.

I'm not the type to kill bugs. When I come across a parade of ants making their way from one side of a walkway to the other, I certainly make sure to step over (not on) them, forgoing the use of one of my innate powers, ability #11: The Colossal Foot Crush. It was the same way with yesterday's pincher. I found a scrap piece of paper, scooped up the pincher bug and brought it out. Except it wasn't enough. Just outside my bedroom door, it made a sly maneuver, wriggled over and dove onto the hallway carpet below, taking refuge in a jungle mess of brown mini shag. Ugh. It would return.

And return it did. My mind was racing, hurried, like a jacked-up thought-disco, dominated by a horror story once heard. You know the one where the woman heard shuffling in her head and didn’t do anything about it? What happened? Cockroach. Brain. Eaten.

Fuck.

Damn you, pincher bug! Damn you! I should’ve used power #11 when you hit the carpet! Argh! Then I think again. Maybe it’ll be for the better? Could it be? The bug bites away the bad bits in my brain. In tiny nibbles it lobotomizes the insecurity, the anxiety, the depression. Instead of doom, a smile says hello. MaybeeEEE?eeeNaaahhh.

After a q-tip assault, I relax.

After all this paranoia, you know that scurrying in my ear? I think it was my long hair getting fussy around my head and ears.

This must be what combing is for.

Bukowski on Writing

Charles Bukowski

"What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."





I need something to slap. There are a couple of topics to tackle but beyond that? Who knows. A man without a life is a man with nothing to write. Bukowski had his drudgery, I got shit.