I always wondered what that moment was like. The one where you find a lump. Knowing that more likely than not, death would soon be knocking.
The moment was disappointing. For me. Not for her.
She'd always expected to die. She talked about it all the time. How she'd never see 25. Then 30. Now it's 40.
Me, I'm 40. Guess I know now that I won't see 50. Probably not 42. Maybe even 41.
The lump showed up the night after a disappointing night of sex. Well, mostly sex.
When the dick isn't cooperative, the sex tends to disappoint. And this time, the dick certainly didn't disappoint. At being uncooperative.
She said all the right things, the girl underneath. But hiding true feelings in those moments doesn't happen. A shrug becomes a smirk. A sigh becomes a curse.
It had all happened before.
This time, however, was a little different.
In the morning, while taking a pee, I noticed that my less than huge dick was less than its normal self. Stretching the complete package out, a lump showed up.
Not the STD kind. Not the bug bite kind. Instead, just a raised portion. It didn't hurt. But the groin always sort of hurt. Ever since the first of now dozens of kidney stones. Including one the sized of an unshelled peanut.
***
I'm the Cubs fan of love.
I liked taking pictures of dead things, I remember that part of my childhood.
If it makes no sense, it’s better than what I’m used to.
I kind of wish I’d kind of done it differently. Maybe.
***
She walked into the room, and dust kicked up.
“Who are you?” she asked with a smile.
“I’m no one.”
“Ok,” she said, walking away.
I watched her walk. She had a nice walk. One leg was a little longer than the other. Her brown shoes didn’t match her plaid skirt.
“Better that way,” I thought to myself.
***
I watched from a far. I used to watch from up close. But one day I thought she saw me. So I had to stop getting so close. If she saw me, she’d never come back. Why? Because she didn’t want me there.
The paint was peeling off the sign that read “Memories.” Faded memories. A cliché. How appropriate.
A patch of sand had started to turn into a hill of sand. I wondered if this was how a dune would slowly build. From run off and one man’s laziness?
I grabbed a shirt off the ground, I was about to cum and I didn’t want to make a mess. Three days later, I found that shirt – it was my favorite old tour shirt. Now, forever stained by my five minutes of needless pleasure. I’d had that shirt since my first show. How could I ever wear it again? Knowing that these new stains came from that?
I bumped into the pool table on my way to the bar. Luckily, no one noticed as the six ball edged closer to the middle of the felt. I grabbed my composure from out of my ass and went to order my beer.
“You dodged one there, sweetie,” a voice came from over my shoulder.
Instead of turning to look back, I gazed into the cloudy mirror behind the bar. A brunette stood behind me. At least I thought she had brown hair. You never really know in bar light.
I smiled at the reflection. It smiled back.
Yesterday, I wished it hadn’t.
I promised I wouldn’t think about her today. I failed. I said I wouldn’t listen to their music. I did. The only thing I followed through on was buying a lottery ticket. Same six numbers as always. I figure the number seven has got to come up as the mega-power-terrific ball someday. All the numbers represent birthdays. Not mine, but theirs. And since so many of them are Cancers, I figured seven was my unlucky lucky number. So far, it’s still that’s held true.
“Have you ever been there?” she asked.
“No. I didn’t know it was even there until you told me two hours ago.”
We had been driving for almost an hour now. Headed west towards “Pete’s Pizza and Beer”, what she told me was the “best damn pizza and beer joint in New Mexico.” Of course, we were in Tallahassee when she told me that.
Waylon was right. You do look in the mirror one day and see how old you’ve gotten. My chest hair is almost completely white now. As is my beard. Guess I’ll never be the new kid anymore.
Scurvy kills.
You know you’re in trouble when you wake up and your car keys are in her hands.
Still haven’t figured out why I left her. Although I know why I wanted to.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Michael Jordan wouldn't do that...
When I woke up, the only thing I noticed was the stickiness. All around my feet. My arms. My chest. My fingers. Everything.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.
When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.
I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.
Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.
“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.
She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.
I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.
I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.
“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.
“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.
“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”
“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”
She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.
After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.
“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”
“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”
I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.
“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.
“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”
“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”
“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.
I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
homemade tattoo
Being poor isn’t romantic. It isn’t some kind of soul building exercise.
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
It’s just horrid.
I feel this way pretty often. Tonight, it hit while I was jerking off in my room. I had to turn the fan on loud and put headphones on while doing it. Soon after, I found myself listening to The Plimsouls and wondering where did I steer off in this direction?
She was crying yesterday. It made me feel sad. And it made me just feel. I told her things I’d not told anyone else. At least not face to face. I didn’t feel quite as lonely that night. Until later, when I got nauseous and felt as if I was going to either die, pass out or throw up everywhere. Thankfully, I did none of those things. Instead, I just felt really terrible and moaned a lot.
The ability to cover up the way I feel sometimes eludes me. I have no poker face. But I’ve known that for years.
Today, the boss pissed me off. So I snapped at him. Like a little bitch, I’m sure he thought. Hell, it’s what I thought. Soon after it was forgotten. But it bothered me that I let it come out like that. I’d done so well getting out of that mode. I know what it means. I need to leave. I need to run. I need to find something new to sink my life into.
Yet, all I can think about is scrounging up the cash to buy four tickets to a concert in Nashville in a little over a month. Take the girlfriend and have some fun. Get drunk. Do stupid things. Maybe even get a homemade tattoo.
I want to take myself serious, but I don’t seem to have the ability to. It drives me somewhat crazy. And that’s the problem. It should make me mad. Insane. Fucking nuts. Instead, it causes bother.
Lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t remember my dad being around. Except when we went places. I don’t remember him even being at my high school graduation. But I know he was there. I just blacked him out. Put a little black bar over his eyes in my memory so I wouldn’t remember him? Of course, I don’t remember anyone else being there either. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t? It’s just another layer of lost.
I wish I could afford to get my teeth fixed. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be in my head. They don’t hurt much. But I stopped taking the supplements that seemed to hasten their demise. Of course, that has hastened other demises. Fuck, getting old sucks. Especially when you haven’t taken care of yourself.
Only me to blame, though. Jack Lelane is laughing at me.
And so are you.
The sky was a burnt orange color when she came outside. I was sitting in my usual place on the front stoop. It was light blue with pieces of the shitty concrete falling off into the lawn of mostly weeds. I loved dandelion flowers. Almost as much as daisies. They both grew everywhere. I know my neighbors hated me for that. But they only lived there for three weeks a year, so fuck ‘em.
She grabbed one of my busted up beach chairs. This one had dolphins on it at one point. Every day I used to comb the beach, looking for the discards of tourists. Koozies and beach chairs. The occasional umbrella or cooler. The stuff people buy for a day then toss on the ground next to a trash can is remarkable. I would take pictures and publish a book on it if I thought it would sell. But who really wants to see 100 pages of pictures of plastic shit? One day some hipster kid would find a copy in a thrift store and it would be popular for a moment. He’d blog about it (or whatever form of on-line communication exists at this point) and it would become a phenomenon. They’d seek me out on the internet, only to find me on my stoop. Wishing their parents had bought the book in the first place so I wouldn’t be living in a shitty, wood-paneled renter in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina, drinking Shiner Bock’s out of a beat up old pint glass that I got at the Chevron station next to the General George Patton Museum in California.
We looked at each other and smiled.
“When we leaving for Nashville?”
“In the morning, honey. In the morning.”
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