" 'It just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?' Ms. Starchild says.
'Yeah, it does.'
And in between the zombie alien row of crops and 'reciting' the states & capitals backward, I affirmed a notion only before thought of in the cursory: There is no woman better.
He types it later."

Mr. Powell, production manager for the paper here, retired. His going-away party was held Sunday, which I attended. It is evident he's a great man. I can only hope to have done as many great things as he at the end of my career to necessitate such a satisfying party.

Now, I'm not vegan. I'm not exactly vegetarian. I do have leanings toward this way of life, but digress upon considering life without shrimp. Nevertheless, under the links I've attached a new link to a blog from and old CoMo friend. Perhaps I'll try some peanut butter noodles tonight... YUM!

Extremes of emotions have fallen on me in the last week, and these center on Ms. Starchild. She brings out the most primal, natural things in me. My security drops to zero but gushes through the derrick just knowing that she's thinking of me. Moreover, she makes me truly happy.

I love her so so much it hurts me. It almost killed me to think she'd leave me for letting Ms. L stay with me. So, readers of 50 word stories can clearly see that I'm officially a committed man, which's a far cry from the slut I used to be.

I'm in love!

I just told a really hard truth to Ms. Starchild, one that had the potential to wreck everything. Keeping this truth wrecked my insides all weekend. In retrospect, it was stupid to keep this from her: We're so close she could tell what's up anyway. I'm falling for her hard.

After a weekend so completely taxing on my physical and mental constitutions, I've realized a few things: 1) I'm still getting older. 2) It'll be easier than I thought to leave K-Town. 3) I'm nothing like the company I keep.
... "Just get me through to the end of the week."

Submission!

"Ooh," she squealed excitedly. "I can submit!" She thought finding a topic would be the hardest part, but when her stories kept coming up short, she realized she was wrong. It was, in fact, counting that was her downfall - it's 50 WORDS for this, not 50 syllables. Oh, the irony!

Sentimental Sunday

As much as I hate the phrase, a "perfect storm" of anxiety-inducing events has washed up from the breaker.

As far as my personal constitution, I'm great. I'm healthy, fit, happy, eating well, and being loved so completely by one Ms. Starchild whose mere presence induces the emotional equivilent of a drink of an ice cold glass of water after an intense, heart-throbbing, deep-sex love making decorated with sweet, cool skin, mild magnolia scent wafting through a bed of clouds and primal drumbeats thumping synching our bodies' vying for pleasure. ...I don't think it's ever been better. I can't stop thinking about her. We're so good together. In fact, Ms. Muffintop used to chide me about my poor taste in women. Well, she hasn't got shit to say now, has she!

Anyway, the anxiety of which I wrote earlier comes from a handful of places, offset here with bullet points.
= One friend does not appear to need help of any kind. However, certain actions and phone calls evince some sort of turmoil, the aftermath of which I can't fathom. If you're reading, call me.
= Setbacks rise with the water level for family in the midwest, specifically Cedar Rapids, Iowa and Des Moines, Iowa. My cuz' sent me images of a town up to its bridges in an excess of water. Additionally, they're under a water use restriction, which makes things a little hard. My family has taken these trials in stride, and suffer no serious damages to housing or personal constitution. All the same, they're in my thoughts for good fortune.
= My job here in K-town may have me move all my stuff to J-ville, about an hour south. This fate would, too, be unsavory for these reasons: my direct boss would be a fucking dumbass when it comes to designing, my job would become both more meaningful and more meaningless in a bizarre collage of responsibilities and demotions, I'd have to leave behind some good friends with whom I'd just began building a solid alcohol-based repoire, and my direct boss would be a fucking dumbass when it comes to designing. The obverse of these, the pros, would be that I'd be paid more and I'd be closer to Ms. Starchild, Mr. Life, and a population more conducive to acceptance.

On another note, I turned down a job offer in 'liz City for the mere reason that it'd've taken me too far from Ms. Starchild and Mr. Life. Additionally, to those folks in the Cox industry, I'm worth $XX,000, which's a nice thought to put under my pillow.

Upon entry into the job field after my tenure at Mizzou, I acknowledged that my life would have a current of turmoils both positive and negative. The tacit hope was that these turmoils would be confined to the well-developed internal mechanisms with which I've grown accustomed to living. Nevertheless, as if surprise were a new phenomenon, this is not the case.

Readership! Know that all things pass, know that your Administrator is in deep love with every one of you. One day, we'll all be sitting on a beach enjoying one another's paradise while the sun, sand, and water create their visual paradise around us.

Man, what a week. Lots of things going.
I'm reminded of the stressors that accosted me a year ago. Today's stressors affect only my surrounding entities: job, friends, lovelife, family. This fate is decidedly worse. Last year, my only injuries were merely internal. Today my injuries are not my own.

666

THIS IS THE SIX HUNDRETH AND SIXTY-SIXTH POST.
YARG!!!
666
AHHHHHH!!!!!
6666666666666666
NOOOOOOO!!!!!!

6666666666

99999999999999
UPSIDE DOOOOOWN!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
6666666666666

OH NO!!!!!!

NOOOOOoooSTROOOOooooDAAAAAaaaaaMOOOOOoooooSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

MARK OF THE BEAST!!!!!!!!

MIME CITY!!!!!!!!!

TURN ON THE AC!!!!!!!!
6666666666666

Please note that submissions are now accessible through the top-most link located in the righthand toolbar. This seems to be the best way to achieve transparency. Please keep your submissions coming. Know that the Administrator appreciates all that you to for the world. You make it great; you are great.

Sentimental Sunday

Franco appears at first glance as I do: somewhat rough around the edges. It's been a while since anyone has taken a chance on him, or me.

In the back of a pawn shop, Franco sat waiting for me. That day I'd visited several other K-town pawn shops. Most of them had the usual fare: Fenders, Mark IIs, sloppily made factory jobs. This one, it seemed different.

There was a layer of dust about one-eighth an inch thick resting on Franco's ordinary finish. My first observation was the pine faceboard.

"Bright on the high end I bet," is what I thought.

When I picked it up and strummed those five strings (it came to me sans high E string), I felt a little buzz at the headstock.

"Maybe some new machineheads," I thought.

The first frets I noticed were around the middle of the neck: bright and new. However, the frets around the headstock, the first three, had a wear to them.

"Somebody played some chords on you," I thought. Maybe I said it.

There is no pickguard. Despite this, I saw no visible pick markings.

"Huh, lots of chords, but not pick marks. Maybe a fingerpicker. Maybe a bluegrass picker. Maybe some history."

It has a simple rosewood fretboard free from warping, rusting machineheads, a simple preamp system, a glued-on bridge, and that's about it. Yet, it seems, the guitar was a lot like me at the time. Franco clearly had some good times. Someone probably played a lot of classic tunes on him, probably even wrote some, people probably listened to Franco at some point, maybe even loved him...

I bought Franco for $150, not even arguing about price. The guitar was only worth $75, or so, but I paid all I had alloted myself. That day, actually 2 hours later, after stringing him up downtown, I earned $7 and a club sandwich. That weekend, we played country tunes for some free beer on the pier at M-rald Isle, "Cowboy take me away," " ... all my exes," "...white-tailed buckdeer, munchin on a clover," "...our song is a screamin screen door," " ... in low places," "... leave this long-haired country boy alone..." We played some Red Hot Chili Peppers while SlappHappy chef Grant sang so as to avoid getting thrown in jail for sleeping on the beach. Since that weekend, we've played on some of the far corners of North Carolina, and back.

So, I guess, things are working OK. If I were disposed to believing in a certain livid path on which we all travel — OK, let's just say that I am so disposed — I'd say we are meant for each other.

The homeless man

Speakers described homelessness. A scruffy man entered. He described his life on the street. The crowd clapped, drowning his words. He kept talking. More clapping. He asked for food. Silence. He said, “I thought you would help.” I gave him my croissant.

It was the only help I could give.

Author — Inna Tysoe

Chalk up one more reason to move.
"Why didn't you go for a better paper? a better place? You could've done something ... better?"
I used to have a reason, but it's mostly due to my lack of larger skills. But, am I suited only for towns like K-town?
"Hell no!"

You know, I'm not a really picky guy. Hell, I've been known to eat from dumpsters, sleep in the street, wear girl clothes, and nail girls of very little virtue. But, when I pay rent for an overpriced apartment, I should have working air conditioning, right?
God it's hot today.

You know what's also funny. Really.
Reasons to move multiply as well. This morning, a compelling reason drew further out of the rumorfog, almost completely out.
"Keep it under your hat, but the whole copy desk could move to [J-ville]."
But you know what? I'm calm. Nothing can touch me.

It's funny, really.
Just when I see a nice place/opportunity to which to move, reasons not to move materialize. Like my zombie movie (on hold until acquisition of a keg), or Hudson's frisbee schooling, or the Slapphappy chefs, or Ms. Starchild.
"Yarg! *Shake fist* Curse you irony!"
Se La Vi?

The job I perform here in K-town was never really challenging. Recently, though, I've found a challenge: keeping myself entertained. Before, I was yearning for a higher standard. Now, I need it like a junkie needs a fix. I want to do God's work like God intended it. But where?

Here's a post for Ms. Amur, my most unreliable friend.
At one point, she knew me well. Nevertheless, my usefulness has apparently run its course. I'd hoped I'd keep in touch with just one friend from the old guard. Then again, I'm not a very good friend anyway.
Se-la-vi Ms. Amur.

I dreamed that I was in Iowa for some reason. Tornadoes, one after the next, pummeled a small town. At one point, a giant, fiery explosion sent debris everywhere. At no point did I feel frightened; maybe I felt a little worried for the small group with which I traveled.

I was invited to a Fireworks Party by one Hudson, a 5-year-old pyrotechnics expert living next door. His invitation was awesome:
" Fireworks party 8:30 "
... also, me: "It's illegal to buy bottle rockets throughout North Carolina!?!?!?!?"
When I was 14, I spent a whole paycheck on fireworks. ... History repeats itself sometimes.

Sentimental Sunday

Hello all! This is your Administrator!
During the time 50 word stories was inactive, I enjoyed another event-filled hiatus. I've also enjoyed your submissions. It is clear that you all are beautiful and filled with love, as if there were any other reality.
Several occurrences have come to pass that make me forever grateful to be alive. Spliced in with this heart-swell of gratitude, as is always present, is a moderate degree of tension and drama. Moreover, though, I feel like my old self has surfaced. ... people around these parts have never seen anything like me ...
Faithful and Loyal Readership! Enjoy a summary of events arranged with subheads and/or bullets!

The outer banks of love

Ms. Schembs and me drove down a little stretch of highway called the Outer Banks. It was beautiful. This photograph was taken on the beach. In the background is the moon.
We have a long history, which is filled with all the necessary elements. In all honesty, the week was slightly awkward. Originally planned as a getaway to, perhaps, rekindle old feelings, it was instead a show of how those feelings are gone. Ms. Schembs and I have truly changed from the love-silly kids in our youth and in our subsequent meetings. While our love may have changed, it has not diminished and will never diminish.

C'est la vie

My good friend Mr. Life has decided to move to Knoxville, Tenn. I wish that we had spent more time together, particularly under the influences of substances that are grown, consumed and enjoyed under the colloquial moniker "Shrooms."
[Editor's note: Se-La-Vi — Chances are that I know what I'm doing; you should look deeper, as usual.]
Maybe we will get the chance to enjoy a bit of the obverse of all of this soon. And of course, as always, a literal "Vaya con dios" is in order.

'I can't stop thinking about you, my love'

There is a woman, Ms. Starchild, who is absolutely gorgeous. We both feel that we made the other up in our respective heads and through some kind of love/hippie/extramindbendinglyweird explosion. I can't tell you how alike we both are. I can tell you that our musical taste differs somewhat dramatically in some respects, yet coincides on core beliefs. Our meeting, talking, kissing, love making, arguing, staring, everything comes so naturally it's at times ... the erotic equivalent of spooky. She is several years my senior, though this fact is quite nonessential to our feelings for each other. It is a fact, though, and unavoidably so.
There is another woman on my mind. Months ago, Ms. Asymmetrical and I met. She pours scotch at a place I frequent. At the time, we spoke of our respective lovelives: my lack of substantive love and her "craziness" in love via one boyfriend a mere 45-minute drive westward.
One night, we ended up at in each other's company at a terrible K-Town bar talking nearly the whole night. I felt an instant connection with her. She was gorgeous and super attractive, yet taken.
A few weeks ago, after Ms. Starchild and I had hit it off so completely, and after I dove into Ms. Asymmetrical's bar, she confessed to me that she and her boyfriend had split up since. During our conversation, I felt that she wanted to expand our conversation to outside the locale, meaning a date of sorts, to which my internal response was a sort of scream reserved for crossings of fate such as this.
I guess that's the end of the stories for now.

Mail call

I've received some pretty righteous stuff in the mail in recent weeks:
1) My jsoimsoisom diploma, a document which not only proves something, but severes clean the ties between myself and MU.
2) A motion picture, which I've been waiting patiently for the Swiss fellow from whom I purchased it via ebay.com to send.
3) Government checks totaling a sweet sum, part of which has already been spent.
4) A honest-to-goodness letter from a friend that lifted my spirits.

SlappHappiness

I'm getting in pretty tight with the local kids here. They're pretty great.
I've helped at dinners, little leagues, kegstands, firewood, musical stylings, lovelives, karate chops, illustrations, etcetera. Nevertheless, I could be moving north soon. Maybe my job I'll quit so that slapphappiness can continue. Which is a decent segue to ...
= The paper for which I'm employed announced a hiring and pay raise freeze during the time I was away.
= There's a job in 'liz City that's available; I like the town a great deal.
= I've begun to update my resume.

The most bourgeoise thing I've ever done so far

I spent $35 for a black T-shirt — nothing more, nothing less.

That's it for now all. The 50-word documentation of my life will commence again, but that's no reason not to show me your endowments of 50-word literature. On the contrary, I'd love to see your endowment. Please give it to me in the usual way.

I trust you're all doing well.