disappointed

Steppenwolf was playing on the radio when I walked into the classroom.

The cat clawed at the jar of marmalade.

I watched The Eiger Sanction with Leonard Nimoy. He thought it was rather tepid. At least that’s what his hastily written post-it note said.

The first bite of basil is nothing compared to the third.

You’re supposed to be straight edge, not straight curved.

I can’t understand why M.C. Skat Kat didn’t make it? Such are the unanswerable questions of life.

The walkway was covered with dirty diapers and cigarette cartoons. Tom & Jerry seemed to be quite high. Somewhere, Fred Flinstone is thinking bad thoughts about Mr. Slate.

My library card didn’t work the last time it was scanned. I asked about it, and the librarian said she’d have to ask the head librarian. She was a lunch. I just wanted to check out a book. Instead, I left.

As the hours drug on, my eyes started to burn. The dryness of not blinking for hours on end, coupled with the sights I was having to witness would have drove most men to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, a redhead named Emily had already taken care of that for me. So, instead I endured.

I looked at the copy editor sitting in the desk to my right. She was about 25 years old. From Maryland. Didn’t have that cool Maryland accent, however. Guess if you spend too much time in the South, it goes away. On my left is the guy with the Stuart Scott problem. He farts and belches a lot. I have never actually been around someone who has so much gas. My dad farts loudly and obnoxiously, but he’s got nothing on this guy in quantity. I didn’t know it was possible to always have gas. Drink a sip of water, burp. Eat a chicken nugget, fart. It goes on for eight hours. And never a single “excuse me” every muttered.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in this pit. I woke up one day, realizing that really, it’s always been the same. The faces change. The places change. But the pit, it doesn’t.

“Why the fuck do you keep typing?” she asked. “You never seem to be happy with what comes out of your fingers.”

I told her they words don’t actually come out of my fingers, instead, they come from my mind. She slapped me and told me to go to hell. I typed that and had a little chuckle. She came over, read what I typed and slapped me again. This time, however, she didn’t tell me to go to hell. She put me there. One bullet to the back of the head. Now, I’m typing endless press releases on women’s basketball. Go figure. I always thought hell would be a little bit meaner. Banality, however, has it’s one cruel bite.

She grabbed the one CD she knew I’d cringe at when she did what she did. Driving 55 miles per hour on the freeway outside of Biloxi, she tossed it out the window. I looked over my shoulder, saw it hit the pavement and shatter into a bunch of pieces that each glimmered in the afternoon sun. The fucking bitch, I thought then. Now, I think that may have been the day I was re-born.

“Have you ever drank the sweat off of a woman that just had an orgasm?” the barkeep asked me. I looked at her, trying to gauge her seriousness. We always ask each other one questions every day before I start drinking. But the key is to figure out if it’s a serious one or not.

“Drank? No. But I have licked,” I replied.

“Such a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s magical.”

I bought the lottery ticket with six numbers that I got from friends. Well, five and one from me. When they hit, I thought for just a second about not telling them. Yet, I knew I didn’t have the balls, or that much asshole in me.

How exactly does one get asshole in them?

I asked for six inches of snow. I got none.

I asked for you not to break my heart. Instead you stabbed it.

I asked to not die alone. So you buried me alive with yourself.

Ebay is the sewer.

Google is the devil.

ESPN killed the newspaper star.

I used to have heroes, but I couldn’t name then now.

My grandfather. I miss him a lot. Even though we rarely talked. Just being around him gave me hope in life. I don’t know why. It just did. I wonder what he thought of me? I wonder what he would think of me now?

Hell, I don’t even know what my own parents think of me. They must be pretty disappointed. Well, my dad probably is. My mom, I don’t know if she really ever expected much from me. I think she knows something happened to me. She may even know what that something was. So, she just keeps an eye on me.

I dove off the bridge, fully expecting to see those stars again when I landed. Instead, I hit the pavement and bounced. I fucking bounced up and then back down to the ground. Broke nothing but my glasses. They called me lucky in the newspapers. How are you lucky when you are trying to kill yourself and you bounce? That pretty much defines unlucky in my book. Which should be written by now. Stop it you lazy S.O.B. What a horrible movie that was. Don Was. Don Johnson. Rod Johnson, stereo salesman. Damn Jennifer Jason Leigh was hot. Still is, probably. But haven’t seen her in a while…