It takes two — 7

That Saturday the prior returned the ticket. We exchanged words; nonessential words. Afterward, I took a shower to unwind. While toweling, I heard a woman's voice inside my apartment. "Get out! Your unwelcome! Leave me alone!" I shouted, thinking it was the prior. It was Ms. Winterton, who left angry/confused.

NNN

It takes two — 6

Paige Laurie gave her University of Southern California degree back because she'd cheated. I've a ticket still bearing MU's "Paige Sports Arena," now renamed. It's a bookmark for The Fountainhead. Once, the prior borrowed and returned The Fountainhead, ticket/bookmark missing after our split. Fond of memorabilia, I called to reclaim.

NNN

It takes two — 5

"I'll be your rebound," Ms. Winterton said simply and unaccusingly. This was after I'd told her my last break-up was a week prior. She didn't believe what she'd said, nor what I'd told her: "It's over with the prior." Ms. Winterton's love was free, singular, erotic, personal — counter the prior.

NNN

It takes two — 4

"You're a good kisser," I said, lost on the sensitive erogenous flesh of her lips. "It takes two," Ms. Winterton replied, melting tongue and body into one, shivering with pleasure.
Kissing is an art form. Despite what's documented, there're new ways of kissing being born daily. Ms. Winterton understood that.

NNN

It takes two — 3

"This doesn't usually happen like this," we took turns saying. "It's OK if the second I'm gone you forget it all," also taking turns — inbetween kissing and tenderness through engorging lips, erotic pain and ecstasy. We were soft and warm that morning and successive nights afterward; though only a handful.

NNN

It takes two — 2

"Let's just dance," I said to Ms. Winterton. Inside the thirty minutes we'd known each other our hands carved our bodies under DejaVu lights. Red, Blue, neon pastel lights flashed her lips and eyes as we drew increasingly closer; limbs rippling pheremones. Our bodies were braded all night — precedent set.

NNN

It takes two — 1

"I've a past," I confess, continually.
She smiles; inside we're violent, dominated by passion. Every pulse's counted; we must close the distance — fuck what's inbetween — and conquer flesh, logic, desire.
If ever again, I'll take it, never looking back. Having been used, cheated, denigrated, I'll still offer flesh, logic, desire.

NNN

... against a brick wall.

Seasons change, temperatures rise and fall, leaves writhe then collapse, and we all live through into the next set of circumstances; shotguns discharge into whatever they're pointed at. Things are as they are, and do not seem to show signs of change in the immediate future. My emotions are as they are, my life's issues are as they are, my lovelife is as it is. When there is no potential, there is only potential waiting to be born. Either that or the current climate has left the upswing, and things are only beginning to writhe and collapse. Bottom line: There is nothing left of which to speak.
This fate cannot be surpassed at the moment, despite goodwill and diligence. While spring is almost over, writhing in summer's conception, I am fixed in a winter where the branches and shrubs provide no heat and the horizon is constant and unchanging. I'll start a fire with my hands and skill, but it's only a spark in the black of undead trees. I have no direction out of the forest, and no real way of knowing which way is north/south. But I'm moving. Just like always. Moving, because there's nothing else to do. And, because, I'd rather die on my feet — doing God's work — than in the fucking dirt.
That's it for a while. Sorry it's more than 50.
Perhaps I'm being too dramatic. Note the new comment policy and let me know!

My hands are useless.
The dishes are done. So's the laundry. The place is picked up. The counters're cleaned, and the refrigerator is ordered to whatever it's order is anyway. So I went for a jog while my mind fucked off. Lot of sit-ups. Lots of push-ups, different kinds of push-ups. I returned some library books to both libraries, on foot. I've taken three tours around Como in my trusty automobile. I've watered the plants and spoke with them thusly. I've seen the TV. I actually called my parents.

And last night I sat, alone, without my guitar. There's nothing else to do but sit, alone, and not play music. And there's nothing I can do. I figure that's why I can't go home at night, and why I spend every second I can outside the apartment.

I used to bound home after work anxious for an empty house and a six pack or a bottle of wine with which to get lit and play songs for a few spare hours. Now I hate going home. Now I'm trapped and forced to look at my hands, unproductive, uncreative, unalive. This is worse than any kind of break-up, some kinds of death. This is worse than knowing you're ridiculed behind your back. This is worse than a bad date with a weirdo. Worse than bad sex with a friend. Worse than loving someone who doesn't love you back. This is worse than that the few seconds after putting out that first cigarette after months of quitting. This is worse than any deep humiliation. This is worse than any debt, monetary or barterary. This is worse than being hungry, even hungry for weeks. I really feel exactly like shit for most of the time I'm concious, even when I'm having fun.
I just don't feel like the person I know I am. I've changed. I'm a stranger now to myself. I've got no purpose, mission, or cause or anything. There's really nothing to do that's worthwhile anymore. "Buy another guitar you fuckin baby!" But it's easier said than done. I really do value Mr. Logan passing his guitar to me for a few seconds (hours really, but what's time anyway), and I can hit up a music shop for a quick fix — but it's not enough. Why? Even when I had a personal contrivance it was never enough. I need more and more and more. And without even a little bit I'm fading away. I'm vanilla. I'm ordinary. I'm Clark Kent, Bruce Banner, or — to put it in a way you fucking journalistic types can understand — I'm a virtuous (unplageristic) version of Jayson Blair or Stephen Glass; a counterpart who has not committed any crime but retains the original ethos.

Who am I if I can't play music? I've always thought about this question, but never long enough to contemplate the reality. Well, now I'm in the reality and I know the answer: Nonessential.

I dreamt of Ms. Walker last night. Good hallucinations. I wish my whole life were a hallucination. "Maybe it is," you say. I don't think so. Why? Everything's far too real and anticlimactic. Ms. Walker's absence is so real. Goddamn she was perfect. Alas, I wish I weren't so lame.

2 for Tuesday

There's a lead that can go before Mr. Ruth, but I can't find it. He's the lead in my story; there's nothing I can do. I'm not good enough for an alternative fate. It's OK though, just not what I'd in mind. But then, what the fuck do I know?

I'd've liked to've written the article — more just to exchange words — regarding the T.C. Boyle book on Columbia's reader list. Why? Because he's kind of a hero — if only for dashes — of mine. And, because, I know from talking with Mr. Puetz that, in a pinch, Boyle's books are edible.

Sentimental Sunday

Friday, a woman called me up. This woman, whose last name starts with a P and is too long to remember, and I went on a date a few weeks ago. It was nice, nothing spectacular, but fun. As it turns out, she lives close to Kansas City and drops into town quasi-frequently to see her brother — who shares the same too-long P name! This woman is beautiful, total hippie, totally cool. Anyway, she called me up because she wanted to invite me to on a float trip with some of her friends. Now, you guys all know what a float trip is, right? It's one of those two-day drifts down a river with lots of beer, sunshine, fun, water, sexual escapades, and not a lot of clothing. AND she just invites me along! They've already got a lot of it paid for! Sunday, Monday and Tuesday! Pretty fucking sweet, right?! And you know what I did. Yeah, you're damn straight you know what I did. I tore off my clothes and went straight down to the river, and right now I'm posting from the shoals while the beauties splash around in the sandbar and the fellas sit grillin' up a burger for all of us.

That'd be fun, but it's actually a straight-up lie. "Sorry, I've got to work. I've got a story to turn in, and I can't leave Brian hanging on the line like that," is what I told her, the hottie who'd invited me on a weekend of total fun with no strings attached.

Last year, I'd've been in that fucking raft faster than you could shout at an oncoming car while standing in the center of the road. Look at me now. I'm sinking in debt that's not school related, I've got three jobs that are fucking me over. I haven't seen the sun — really seen it — in about three weeks now. I'm living on hot dogs, bread and water. All my clothes are in need of a wash two times over. And in even the smallest bits of my free time, I'm working. And if a girl does want to hang out with little to no clothes on while we drift down the river and share a drink, it's impossible. What've I become? No fucking fun, that's what.

On my free time, I'm working. Though, I did actually take a nap today. The nap was so good it makes me think that I sleep better in the daytime. I'm always working, though, because if I weren't working then I'd have a really boring life. This much is certain.

My stomach has collapsed. Every scrap of food I eat is like a slap in the face. The hunger never subsides. I've got a paycheck waiting for me at that place I work, but will it furnish me with health? Overdraft charges don't help. Slip slip slip into debt, vitamin-deficiency.

What else's there to write about? Passion's always a good topic, but there's none to be had. Songs're great to write about, but I'm unable to play them. I'm listless; I've got no reason to rise in the morning other than to continue. There's nothing around that makes me smile.

At the Breaktime on Conley Avenue and at Wal-Mart, the price of a gallon of gasoline and a gallon of milk are equal: $2.69. Decisions, decisions. I've already sold my CDs to be in a position to decide. I'm so hungry that I'm thinking about turning other items into decisions.

Even though the letter was typed, machine-stamp signed, and it contained matter-of-fact phrases like, "Dean's Honor Roll list for the Winter 2006 semester" I could feel the veiled passion in Mr. Brooks' language. He loves me! We must hide our emotions, but at least, we'll have the J-school. (Fuckin' A!)

Something I've been thinking about for quite some time: There should be punctuation created that combines the "?" and the "!" Think of it! I'll use the poundsign as an example (##).
"She said what##"
"Who do you think you are##"
"What's your major malfunction##"
"It only lasted five seconds##"

Sentimental Sunday

Do you know what will happen if you stick a potato into the tailpipe of a vehicle with a well-oiled, -gassed, and -tuned mechanical anatomy? I don't know for sure, but I imagine ... wait, Even better example! Suppose you were to stick a potato — no — a cork, or some airtight & solid plug, into the barrel of a .22 rifle and fire the gun into the air.
See, I imagine that the barrel would split along five even sides and curl up — like a banana! a metal banana — while the bullet would go straight into the foot of the person who'd pulled the trigger.

If my life right now were to be distilled into a single image, then, you guessed it, my foot would be fucking killing me. My guitar was stolen, my boss is looking to fire me, I've run completely out of money, and the women in my life seem to want nothing to do with me. And when the addition is done ... 1) car left unlocked + 2) incompetent management - 3) double payday after paying rent left me with about $9 in the bank + 4) whatever reason or quality about me that drives away even the most eager of love interests / The Missourian is really the only bright spot (carry the 1, which is my $100 steady red light violation) = metal banana and amputation.

Now I realize that's a lot of numbers and I'm not out to confuse anyone. ... Wait, actually that's exactly the goal of this blog. Or is it? ... (Yes. Or is it? ... (no.))

Anyway, I've become sidetracked. I was in the middle of the forest, no civilization for miles. One wrong move and I'd've been sent back in a bag — if anyone would ever find the corpse I'd leave behind! The real point of the story is that even after I fired the gun into the air (aiming for dinner), and the bullet backfired and lodged itself into the dense flesh of my calf and foot, the only thing I could do was laugh. There I was, laughing my ass off. Even as I carved into the meat — blood flying — to dig that unplanned backfire out of my stump, I was laughing as hard as I could. I've gone crazy. There's really no way to go except crazy, and I've become soooooooooooo crazy that I will have to rip the flesh out — veins and all — force that lead from my own leg, and crawl my happy fucking ass back into Mojo's on Tuesday. At least there I won't even need a gun, and I get all the metal bananas I can eat!

I suppose after a week or so the adrenaline will wear off and I'll actually realize that my foot no longer works. Will I have a guitar? Will I be able to use running water from my faucet? Will Ms. Walker ever write me back? Or, Will I return from insanity long enough to have a little romance? Will I still be delivering that stupid fucking credit card pitch at that stupid fucking credit card place? Will Luis ever win back Sheridon, the love of his life, from her new love Chris? Will I ever get anyone to eat my metal banana? For these questions and more, Stay tuned Fuckers!

I'm in love! Her name is Elizabeth and she plays guitar, just like me! She also bends her headstock, two-hand taps the fretboard and flirts with strangers, just like me! I'd be her punk-jackhammer, jack-and-coke breakfast-in-bed, anti-style romance. She could scream me to sleep with her eyes and experienced hands.

Anybody know that sinking feeling? You know, when you look at what's there (notes mostly) and start to see flaws and holes--before writing even the lead! It's like climbing out of the sink when sources finally become colorful. One thing's sure: I'm 100 percent dedicated to The Missourian now.