Wherever I happen to end up, if I end up there, and there's a woman, and she's looking my direction, and on her face there's an expression, not of unkind intention, but of hidden, pointed, "friendly" intention, the kind which may include clothing, now, I think: "She's probably somebody's girlfriend."

The Wednesday Headache

Without much elaboration, I can liken my life to one quote: "You are a shell of a man."
Recently, I observed two examples, in which Ms. Yellowhead and Ms. Particles shared coffee in Lakota with their latest mark, respectively.
Literal: It really hurts, being the guy reserved as a "mistake."

"As he sits on the couch, which Ms. Babe said was given to her by a recent ex, his mind produces the phrase: 'history repeating.'
'Are you reading my mind now?' he asks her, honestly unsure.
Ms. Babe smiles, gives an eye: 'Maybe.'
*such a babe*
He types it later."
**EDIT**TIMESTAMP:13.05.35
"Ms. Babe crosses his vision as he enjoys a NatSherman outside Lakota. This time, her smile and eye directed toward a different mark. Upon glimmer of his attention, the two disappear into downtown.
'History's repeation, unlikely at this point,' he thinks. 'That was a close one.'
He types it now."

Payday. So when the money comes in, the total owed is considerably more than the total owned. Considerably. Not to worry, folks! I've still an ace up my sleeve. Though, playing it gets tougher and tougher with each passing day. I suppose that's life, right?
Or maybe, that's just finances.

Sentimental Sunday

OK! Here's a little ditty for this chick I know who can't get enough of (gotta say this one right: like a transylvanian count) bl-aak l-iipst-iick. OH!! here's a linky. There's five things for sure about this week and hanging out w/Ms. Amur: 1) I always spend too much, 2) We seem to cotton to absquatulating onto the tops of rooves (is it rooves or roofs (*WAIT!* don't answer)?), 3) My apartment always becomes closer to completely fucked up, 4) Judgments in the concern of broad issues ranging the gammuts national and international the following workday enjoy a relaxed secondary position behind the sockets of my swelling eyes, which is in large due to the liberal amounts of alcohol that the night prior I'd both bought and consumed, 5) I always spend 2 much.
Good times. (and this one is delivered while heartily laughing (and infinitive splitting)) "And you got-ta know that Delaware, Maryland, Minnesota, or wherever, ain't goin' to be as fun!"

[Editor's Note: More sentimentality to come, RIGHT!]

TIMESTAMP: 27.5.2007—17:53:33 hours
Now that I'm done with the wire page, and, of course, with Ms. Amur's prose, I'll wax nostalgic on a week's time.
Arguably the highlight of this cycle, I received a letter from Ms. Benji yesterday. Her words written carefully on the paper filled my heart with so much happiness I can't even realize how much of what a sentence is that characterizes this filling, happiness, and words.
Monday, after some shots and some time, me and Ms. Particles made some time. Even as I kissed her I knew it was a mistake. Like I said earlier, you'd've thought I'd've learned all those ins and outs.
Said goodbyes to some friends. Got carded numerous times and, in an embarrassing turn of events, was unable to produce official documentation of my date of birth. This resulted in some peculiar scenarios, "Plan B's," which I feel were better than the respective night's "Plan A's."
And, Drats! Of all the promises I kept this week, the one that I broke was for potluck on Friday, a night in which instead of a hearty recreation of the preceding nights I changed suit by placing three blankets over my fevered body and, thereby, enhancing my body's immune system against the fever inside. I must've sweat a literal pint.
And we roll right back into the swing of things tomorrow. As for my troubles, you all know that rap. They're still there. I promise you all, though, I'm through making the dissatisfied-girlfriend mistake again. It really sucks when that satisfaction comes back to her for some unknowable reason. So it goes...

Today, she stepped outta nowhere and right smack in my sight. God she looked amazing. Popping up like fairy ring in thick bermuda, reminders of lovelife's past and its recurring theme: There's always another man in the picture. And, it's never like I can help it — if I even know.

The Wednesday Headache

" 'We're on top of Noyes,' he shouts into the cellphone.
A groggy response from Mr. Life: 'Dude, it's 3:30.'
'Oh, really, ... I didn't realize,' he says while extending his hand downward for the compadres to climb. The group of irregulars sauntered as happy as any sunrise.
He types it later."

We can say it loud one more time: Easy come, easy go. You'd think I'd've learned a lesson, or even two. "If there's a hanger-on, it's always a bad idea." Always. Trouble is, there always seems to be a hanger-on. And of course, they don't care. Easy come, easy go.

The town's slowed to saunter, which led me to drop Ms. Benji a note. Often I think of her. Maybe it's because we didn't have enough time for me to screw up. Maybe it's because she never got too far into my complicated life. In a way, she saved herself.

What a gift. The day was perfect. I stretched my weary bones in the shade on the grass while the sky took over, filling all that's usually empty with the medium of light. It makes sense to cherish the gifts around us while we can; merely living is thanks enough.

As much as I fret, my life is quite extraordinary. You could live for years and not go through all the things I'm going through right now — favorable and unfavorable. I've got lovers, haters and others. All extremists, all interesting. One things' for sure: Things are getting way too expensive.

I've got defense. Whereas before I felt a touch disinclined to part ways with my legal tender, in the name what amounts to nothing more than societal beauracracy, for those whom I did not trust, now I oblige funds for two reasons: that aforementioned societal mandation; he'zza less slimy dude.

"The Shadowfigure approaches.
'I'm sorry 'bout causing you all that trouble a while ago,' with no pretext, just straight into apology.
He looks the Shadowfigure over ... sincerity approved, hands shaken.
And just like that, one troubled section of his life — dissolved!
He wishes that was everything, and types it later."

Bollocks! I'm growing fast to hate this country. With my new university-taught sense of worldliness I believe that as soon as it is allowable I'll leave these confining borders not to return. East, west, north, south, as Mr. Armstrong put it: "Always go forward. Going straight will get you nowhere."

OK readership, hopefully I'll be in good spirits enough to continue posting one 50-word story daily. This should come as a bit of a shock, considering that for the past months — nada. Here's how things stand: STD-free, notta crim yet, single and unwatched, bliss blocked by Bollocks!, workin' hard, broke.

Everyone, pray for change, me.

Sentimental Sunday

Through the sandstorm I see a door...

There's a point when a winsome attitude no longer prevails, and the changes become more than mere words on a page, or lives crossed, or lives lived. And as the wind shifts direction I continue, as always, against, sand and debris causing patterns of stress on my skin, tearing away the protection so many use and prevail with, somehow, lucky bastards.
But, what's this? Some kind of door. My clothes, shoes and hair sandy, at one with the desert, which may swallow me whole with one false step. So... should I dust off myself before opening the door? Should I give pause to the desert crossed, the forest, the lives?
Naturally. What a crazy semester. Terrible, really. Ms. Temperance with her craziness, STD, and her potentially psychotic bo; Ms. Yellowhead with her stunning yellow hair, which I'm still unsure of whether to trust myself in close proximity to, oh, and here potentially psychotic bo; Ms. "It's whatever", who I'm not sure really knows if I'm gone, or was ever there, nor do I've the knowledge myself, nor to the fact that if I did there'd be any resulting difinity; Ms. L, who I really tried to make myself love, shame. It's impossible to move at all without reflecting on the greatest failure to date in my fucked up life — with Ms. 2012. How did I let it unravel? Retrospect for me is a waking nightmare, as I feel my love for her was part of a consciousness I'll not ever get back. And I did fall in love. Always I'll wonder, and always I'd turn right back around and walk through that desert, the forest, through all the fucked up lives, the love I've murdered, the happiness I forsook, —through it all for her. Or would I? ... "Oh, P-bone, you're getting emotional again."
Well, not really. I really can't say I feel much of anything. How's this for attention: "... with regard to the future, it really doesn't matter." And then something about adaptability, which was the point. It kills me that I had every opportunity to turn things all around, but the details and consequences of my life caught up to me in such a way as to impair basic functions of the soul, simple words that I want to say left in my mind only to cloud whatever may be behind this door. This door. Does it even exist? —50

"He clears his eyes on his palms.
'Should I open it,' he thinks aloud, not that anyone can hear, or would listen for that matter. Relentless sun beats him down; the light of society never fades, justifiably so.
He brushes the handle; the vision sharpens, then dissolves into shade unreachable."

—And, as if I expected to be surprised, the final chapter was bookended with something as close to bliss as I'll ever define, and with the thread of world that has —here, at the end— shown me its power, power to keep me away from my heart's bliss. Ms. Benji: A final goodbye to a woman who is far too great to have kissed a man like me.
So, I open the door and realize that what lies on the other side is simply more desert. And there's no going back. To add insult to injury (if we think of injury as metaphoric result of some kind of punch-up) I can see more doors, each as important as, say, the next. So the only real function I have now is—