thoughts, and where they lead...

I want a moment with my ex like the ending of the first episode of “The Newsroom”. I know it’s not going to happen, but, I’d still like that moment.

“What are your plans for my Emily?” her uncle said to me in Colorado.

“I don’t have any plans for her. I’m just trying to be there for her,” was my answer.

He grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. “Just don’t hurt her,” he said.

“Never,” I said with a smile.

She never heard that conversation. I never told her about it.

And I hadn’t really thought about it until right now. Especially the ending part.

And now I wish I hadn’t thought about it at all.

I want so much to believe in the Hollywood ending. The epiphany will come. Even if it takes years. But life isn’t like that for most of us. We bounce into people’s lives and it works or it doesn’t. For whatever reason, some get it right the first time. Some get it right after 100 tries. Some never do.

I hope that I’m not one of the latter. I’d hate to think that really, she was the one, and I let her go. Or she let me go.

The old cliché that if you let someone go, if they come back blah, blah, blah.

Fuck that shit. And fuck the keep trying. Fuck it. It’s all lies. We all fuck each other over. Some can just deal with it better than others.

And fuck that. I don’t want to be so God damn bitter. But I am. And I only have myself to blame. And damn you The Darkness for making that phrase always be in Justin Hawkins’ voice. No matter what the context. Welcome to my fucked up mind.

But that holds true for it all. You are what you perceive. Your reality is only what you perceive it to be. It’s so damn simple, and I’d guess so damn true.

I was thinking of writing about my father’s Members Only jacket tonight. About maybe putting it one after he dies. But I don’t want to think about my dad being dead. As much as we’ve fucking hated each other over the years – and dammit, I think he’s hated me at times too – I still love that fucking drunk bastard. I still want so much to make him proud of me. And I know my time is limited on that front. His health is bad, but damn, he keeps drinking. He keeps being bitter about things. And every day I see how much like him I really am. No matter how much I tried not to be. It’s impossible. Yeah, I don’t berate the one’s I love like he did. But I hide from them as much. And nowadays, they run away when you do that. They don’t stick around.

I wonder often what would have happened if my mom had had the guts to leave. She should have. He was a fucking prick most of the time. At least what I remember. And I don’t remember much, so for it to have made that much of an impression, it must have been a lot.

I still want to incorporate my mom taking that fucking marlin off the wall, hauling it to the front door and chucking it into the bushes into a story one day. Into a screen play. I was on the stairs, peering down through the white wood railings that lead upstairs. Me, a confused and scared little kid wondering why my parents fought so damn much. I know now why. And I always tried to say I’d never do the same things my dad did. Switch jobs for a woman. Give up on my dreams for hers. But, you know what. I always did the exact same thing. Even when I thought I wasn’t. It’s a fucked up world out there. And we’re all a part of it. And no matter, I made the decisions I made. Which either directly or indirectly led to the demise of great things in my life. And as Justin Hawkins will keep singing in my head all night “I’ve only got myself to blame…”

I see it now too. I want so badly to move to Raleigh and just get a job digging ditches or mowing lawns. But, I don’t want to give up on the “life.” Not that the “life” has ever given anything back to me but a couple of plagues on my floor – yeah, I don’t hang them – and a lot of pain – laid off, unrespected, angst-ridden.

I guess that’s why all the old guys were all single. Or divorced in the business. The smart ones got out. The ones that wanted families and lives and happiness. The rest of us, we got old and crusty and bitter.

And our teeth fell out.

Not yet, though.

rental phone

As I sit here at 3:50 in the morning listening to Westside Connection, the ultimate in fake gangsta rap, I guess it’s all ok.

35 years ago sometime this week, Star Wars was released. I didn’t see it that weekend. I was six years old. I did see it however before the year was over.

My parents were, I guess, pretty damn cool when I was really young. We took the station wagon to the drive-in theater to see it. I remember seeing a few movies there. The Empire Strikes Back was one of them. So were a few Disney movies.

Maybe dad wasn’t so much a shit? Actually, I don’t remember him being there. I don’t remember mom being there either. I do remember sneaking in with my sister driving at some point. And since she was just 5 years older than me, I couldn’t have been less than 11 years old. “Get under the seat,” she’d say.

Ha.

I do remember watching Star Wars there. Sitting on the roof of the car. Just being fascinated by it. Honestly, few things over the years have had that effect on me.

Walking into my dorm room at UVA for the first time. That did.

Seeing a girls vagina for the first time. At UVA, in Lambeth dorm, second year. I, luckily, was so damn nervous I couldn’t even think about getting a hard on. So, she left. I was told that she asked one of my suitemates if he had a condom on the way out. No wonder.

Seeing a shooting star, at the age of 19, for the first time. That sticks out.

So does walking home with Rannette one day in high school. Sophomore year. Why that was the only time we did it, I’ll never fucking know. I guess she had a reason.

My first date with Sharon. I still vividly remember dancing with folks at some frat house. Me, doing things I’d never do. It’s why I think she was so special for so long. It passed, that feeling. But it took a long, long time.

My first kiss with Emily. Way before we were ‘dating’. I kissed her on the head. After she’d got second degree burns on her chest and head going to the beach with me. She didn’t remember it happening. And that made it somehow more special. And I guess to this day, makes it more special. Dream-like quality and all….

Seeing Alisa walk into the bar for the first time. Those boots and that attiude.

Talking with Adrianna outside of the State Press before we were dating. Her watching me. Me watching her. Eventually leading to that kiss. What a strange kiss, but magical.

The empty boxes of beer behind me when Alisa and I kissed for the first time. First time, second date.

Emily and I’s first kiss. In my room. Green sheet. Bad blinds.

I remember things that I shouldn’t and don’t remember things I should.

Fuck. I don’t want these thoughts. But I don’t want to toss them. They will lead somewhere, eventually. Because they have to.

My first interview as a reporter. It was on the phone. I was awkward. It sucked. I don’t have a copy of that story. It ran in the Charlottesville Daily Progress sometime in August of 1992.

The first one for real? On the ASU track team.

First scary interview? Carie Courty. Arizona State gymnast. Scary because I was a dork. She was hot. That was it.

Favorite story I covered? Chasing Bill Frieder the day he got shit-canned at ASU. Another one of those I shouldn’t have been doing it stories, but I was in the office when it broke, so it became my story things. Some days, those were my favorites. Even when they caused friction with the “Beat” guy.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel that thrill again. I haven’t written anything for publication that would get a byline since January of 2009. It is now May of 2012. That’s a long time. A long fucking time. It’s the kind of gap that employers go “well, why didn’t you write?” Well, fuck you. I’ve been writing every God damn day. Well, not every day. But damn close. Notepads and blogs and shitty briefs in your sacred fucking newspaper. Briefs that the guys you pay twice what I make don’t see as important. Until the next morning when they see them there and say “um….thanks for getting that in.”

That’s three days in a row that I’ve ended at exactly 750. I don’t know if that means I’m tapped out, or something is trying to tell me something.

It’s all good. And goo.

Speaking of…I heard Sonic Youth on the free XM radio today. I hadn’t heard anything from Daydream Nation in years. It felt dated. Like me, I guess. Who wants it? Not us. Except on 90s night on alternative radio.

How about alternative print guy night on the internet. The night when all the “modern” bloggers go the fuck away with their links and references to American Idol and Twitter. Instead, you hear about Ronnie Lane and actually standing in line for a movie, hoping you got a ticket, instead of ordering it online and printing it out at home or even using you fucking I-phone to just scan some bar code.

Fuck you.

Technology.

I’m old and it shows.

And you don’t care. Even though you’re old and hate it too. Or young and don’t know any better, but would feel the same way if you had just actually rented a fucking home phone. For almost 20 years. At $9.99 a month. Damn it mom, did you really do that?

potato skins

The miles peeled off in front of me like potato skins. Eastern North Carolina back roads seem to be like that more so than the roads of my old state – Virginia.

It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve spent over a decade in this state. It started off so promising, got really good, then fell apart in the blink of an eye one night sitting amongst a collection of crap that put me in debt over the years. I still remember staring at all those boxes of shit, moved from North Carolina to Florida and back again and never leaving those damn U-Haul boxes once. What a waste of space and time and money and any other thing that one wastes. Life? Sure, why not.

I looked out my window. The sun was setting to the west, which happened to be the opposite direction I was going. The pastel colors of the sunsets here are beautiful, especially the closer one gets to the ocean. The only good thing about going east around here is you end up at the ocean eventually. Through some interesting territory sometimes, full of Confederate flags and beat up Camaros on blocks in front of even more beat up double-wides. I look at those places and wonder how awesome it would be to just move in and do that. Stop thinking so much about the past, the present and the future. Instead, just exist for a bit and work on my Camaro.

Of course, then there is the worst part of getting to the beach – the way it’s been transformed into a mini-Wildwood by the fuckers from the north. Yeah, the Yankees. Some in this state would call me a Yank, coming from the southern part of Virginia. But I’ve got an accent, more of it comes out when I’ve been drinking or when I’m nervous as hell. Which isn’t too often anymore.

The radio’s not giving me what I want at the moment. Double shot of Pink Floyd by some station in Raleigh that is most likely playing a Clear Channel approved set list. I push the button. Then I push it again. And repeat and repeat.

The best song I can find on this Wednesday night in February is Eddie Money’s “Baby, Hold on to Me.” I guess it really could be worse, but at the moment I don’t think it is.

I thought about telling her last night the name I had been thinking about. She’d asked before and I said I hadn’t thought of one. But that was before that night in New Orleans when everything changed. When we had to live through the worst night of my life.

It makes me cringe thinking of how I used to think that no pain could be worse than the one I got when the redhead broke my heart. She wasn’t the first, and much to my shock at that time, wasn’t the last either. But I nearly killed myself over it. Came within a phone call not answered of at least trying it once.

But now, that seems small compared.

As does the first time I found out that I could’ve been a dad. Even though I guess I wouldn’t have been.

It was in New Orleans too.

I still remember the bricks of the building we were walking past. The Spanish moss in the trees. And the incredible sinking feeling inside of me when she told me about the abortion. Things have never been the same since that day. It took me a long time to realize it.

Now, that pales.

The memory I can’t get out of my head is her eyes. The pain she was in. Not just physically. The mental anguish of what was happening was impossible for me to stop.

I held her hand. I told her to look into my eyes. Over and over. It happened and it was over. I almost looked down, but I didn’t. I still don’t know if she did. We said we wouldn’t and I don’t think she did either.

Honestly, I didn’t want the memory. I’m too good at them.

Now, I wonder if she would have liked the name I liked. Mellor. It’s strange enough but perfectly fitting for me to name a kid that. I liked Darby as well, but knew that it wouldn’t fly. Maybe not with her, but with my mind. So, I settled on Mellor. I guess many would have expected HRJ the IV. But I didn’t seem to think it would fit. Maybe I would have grown into that idea. Maybe not.

All I know is I want that memory out of my mind. Her eyes looking at mine. They were begging me to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t.

I was strong that night. Strong for her. I nearly cried when the doctor told us exactly what had happened. The tears were there, but they didn’t flow.

Later, while she slept, I called my mom and told her. I almost cried then.

That was as close as I’ve gotten. And I don’t know if I’m ever going to. I want to. But they just don’t want to form. Don’t want to come.

The Eddie Money song ends. A commercial for some local car dealer comes on. Telling me I need a new car. I sigh a long sigh and watch as the sun disappears beyond the trees of the Croatan National Forest.

“I’ll be home soon,” I think.

Hard on. Apply directly to the penis.

It’s a moment etched in the brain. It’s not wanted in there anymore, yet it insists to exist there.

Drinking till stupid didn’t get rid of it. Yelling and screaming at it doesn’t work much either. Writing about it endlessly doesn’t help much, but the pain seems to subside a bit. Talking to others about it just gets perplexed looks and uncomfortably bad advice.

Why this memory is so much more vivid than, say, that great night in Texas or the first time I kissed someone, I have no idea.

Instead, this one stays there. It’s just a short memory, but it’s awful -- me, driving my sister’s SUV. The smell of her dog everywhere. Her, standing there with no emotion on her face at all. Tears running out of me like ants attacking a dropped Push Up. Everything so bright as the late Spring sun is high in the air on Memorial Day in Florida.

I watch her stand there, making sure I’m not going to stop and come back. I watch the entire length of the driveway, finally reaching the road. I put the SUV in drive and go. Soon, the house is gone from view. So is she. The next 12 hours are nothing. I have one vague memory of the drive back to North Carolina. I remember making a phone call or getting one, I don’t remember which it was. My best friend who is an ex-girlfriend calling me or me calling her. I didn’t kill myself that day/night because of that phone call. Although I definitely thought about it.

Funny how that sticks. Two endings meeting up, but not allowing for another end.

Why fucking Dokken brings that one flooding back, I’ll never know. I guess the line “I told you I had to leave, I had my reasons. I said that it’d hurt to stay, the way I’m feeling.”

Eh. Whatever.

I could go grab a beer. Like I did so often when this memory flooded up my mind. Clogged it may be the better descriptor. Other things just don’t exist when that memory is there. Damn, has it really been four and a half years? What the fuck am I still haunted by that ghost for? Normal people don’t do that, do they?

Enough bad writing (including my own) has been dedicated to the longing that won’t leave. The longing that you think is gone when you find someone else, but when that person goes away, it comes right back. I guess I just need to find someone that’ll stay. Is that the key? Is that the solution? Is it really that fucking simple?

Probably.

***

“You fucking listen to this shit?” she said after my jukebox selection of “Dream Warriors” by Dokken started playing.

“I saw them live once,” I replied. “Still the loudest show I’ve ever been too. I couldn’t hear right for three days after. It was even on the local news just how loud the show was.”

“Still, this song. It sucks.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t remind me of anything.”

“Well, that’s as good a reason as any. My name is Michelle.”

“Michelle, pleasure to meet ya. My name is Randy. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Nah, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“Figures.”

“Why?”

“You’re the first woman to speak to me in three months that I didn’t work with or who wasn’t at a cash register.”

“It’s no wonder.”

“Huh?”

“Shave once in a while.”

“Cheers!”

***

Lights flickered in his eyes. Bright colors all of them. He felt a little heavy on the left side. Every bit of picked up medical knowledge told him he was either having a stroke or a heart attack.

But he had more important things to worry about. Mostly, the 14 hours left in his drive to New Orleans. He was depending on this trip to end some melancholy. She was depending on him to get her there. Basically, it was do or die, and maybe even do and die.

The lights stopped flickering after a couple of hours. The numbness in the arm about an hour after that.

“Survived another one,” he thought to himself as he guzzled some Dr. Pepper and ate a Slim Jim. Yeah, there was no reason to think, at 40, he’d be having those kinds of troubles. Just the mind playing tricks on him.

“Sure. But when the dick stops getting hard, that’s when you might want to get it checked out,” the sensible voice inside his head said.

“Not like I’d know,” he chuckled. Was that out loud, the definitely thought as he looked at her sitting in the seat next to him.

“You say something?” she muttered, digging around in the bag of cds he’d brought.

“Just thinking about my not having sex in a long time,” he thought.

“Nah. Just mumbling to myself.”

“You do that a lot. You know that?”

“Yeah, you live by yourself as long as I have, and you tend to not notice,” he said.

“I’ve lived by myself for most of the last 10 years. I don’t do that.”

“Well, I guess I’m insane. And you’re going to be a car with me for the next 15 hours. Buckle up!”

“Joy.”

I looked at her. Got a hard on.

“Ha. Guess, I don’t have to worry about that yet.”

***

My Best Girl

“Is that the way you feel?”

It seemed like such a simple question. A throwaway, just in the middle of a long conversation kind of thing. A softball lobbed out over the plate.

Never did I see it as a gurgling, teeming sign of what was to come from this girl. This woman that I’d fallen in love with. Plummeted even, into love.

“I don’t play the guitar,” I replied with a smile. That smile I get when I’m trying to be cute. The girls always seem to like it, and I’d never really thought I was doing anything differently. But, years later, when my teeth started to look like that of a street urchin with 20 years of heavy meth used under their gums, I realized that I didn’t smile like that anymore…

“That’s not the point,” she said. “Do you believe those words?”

Those words were this…

“The only girl a boy can trust, is his guitar.”

Yeah, based on my experiences, that’s been pretty well the truth so far. That’s what the song means to me, I said, continuing : But I don’t think it’s an absolute. That’s exactly why I’m sitting in this car with you, because I want you to be the girl that proves it wrong.

“I just think this song is mean,” she said. “All girls aren’t bad. We aren’t all liars. You can trust me.”

I do trust you, I told you that, I said. I knew right away that I phrased that really poorly. But hey, like the man said, “I was never that good at the words, anyways…”

We drove a little bit longer. This was one of the few times she was actually driving. Always her car, as my 1988 Acura was definitely not date friendly -- no air conditioning, bad brakes, and windows that didn’t work. Her car? A 2008 Ford Focus. Funny, that car reminded me more of my ex-girlfriend than the one I was driving did. And that used to be her car.

Why? Because we used to drive around and when we’d see a Ford Focus, inevitably one of us would say “Ford Focus Probe.” Again, why? Because we were dorks who hated both of those cars. It’s one of the few things that I can sit here now, years later and hear her voice. I once had a tape of her voice. A tape of the last phone message she left me before she broke my heart. Strike that, before she stabbed it with a rusty screwdriver and mashed it around a bit. Yeah, that’s what she did. I listened to that tape just once after we broke up. It made me cry.

I threw it away during the great purge, but that’s getting ahead of myself. Or maybe telling a completely different story. I do that. Lost in thought, the train of it gets off track.

So we’re driving to someplace, my guess is it was at lunch for me -- dinner for her. This was before she had moved in. Before I fell in love with her three-year old kid. We were still getting to know each other.

And maybe my answer to that question. Maybe my insane obsession with the band that sang that song started to make an impression on her.

She knew my heart was fragile. This we “talked” about via e-mail, myspace messages and texts.

I look back on that now and all of that was research for her. Finding out my passions. Finding out my weaknesses. Finding out what made me, well, me.

And my broken heart was part of me.

I told her about Emily. I told her how she did me in. How I spent so long just drinking and moaning and wasting time.

So my feelings about a song by my favorite band about how women, you know, break you heart, should not have come as a surprise.

“I just hope you don’t look at me that way,” she said as we got out of the car to go to Logan’s Roadhouse, a cheesy steak joint in town.

Baby doll, I said, I’d break my guitar for you if I had one.

She smiled and kissed me. Groping me in just the right place right as we got to the door of the place. We pause for a second, kissed one more time. She looked at me with those gorgeous eyes and I just plain melted. I’m just a sucker for them. Always was. Still am really. Last time I saw her, she still had that power.

She had me in her hands, could have done anything to me and I would have smiled and said yes to it.

She slipped her hand into my shorts. I got a hard on just as the doors opened an a couple came out.

“Oh, sorry,” she said.

We ate dinner, she a giant steak, me a catfish plate of some kind.

After paying for the meal, we get in the car. She turns on the ignition.

“…and she’ll neh-ver breaaaak myyy heart….”

“Ugh…not this,” she sighed.

It is a great song, I said with that same smile.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you.”

I should have known right then, it wasn’t gonna last.

***************

My Best Girl

(*Inspired by the Lucero song and a real night in my life)

****************

Sanity is, most certainly, overrated.

“It looks like it’s not going to be that bad.”

The opening to an awful disaster movie? Or my life. In the next few days, we’ll find out.

Went today to get a “hurricane pass”, or what you have to have to get back on the island after an evacuation has been called, but they haven’t declared it 100 percent safe yet. All the folks I asked said all I would have to do is show my lease and get it.

I did and didn’t.

It seems the town here has changed its policy of giving out passes every year to folk. Instead, they issue permanent ones to the residence itself, not to who actually is living there. Which means renters are screwed if their property management company doesn’t care or the owner of the property just wants to keep it for themselves.

Well, fine. I was probably going to ride the fucker out anyway, and now I guess my ass is going to.

Of course, I’ll leave for work on Thursday and they’ll close the bridges while I’m there. Keeping me from my own home. Yeah, safety and all that. I understand. But I’d like to be able to come back once the freaking storm is gone. I’m smart enough to not mess with downed power lines and such.

Of course, they may close the bridge Thursday night after I get home from work. Then, I’ll get to see a hurricane up close.

Unless it just skirts on by like the weather forecasters say it’s going to.

Ahhh, the ol’ cliffhanger again. Will it actually hit, or will it not. Will our hero go to sleep with lots of wind and rain, only to wake up floating in his own house? Stay tuned after these messages.

***

The last time I was around a hurricane here in NC, was Ophelia. I ended up leaving my apartment when the water started lapping at the doorway. It was interesting watching the waves in the river reach 7-8 feet tall.

That one missed us, and ended up doing more damage in Hopewell and Richmond than it did here. Flooded all of downtown Richmond pretty badly.

I saw Rita in Florida while with Emily. It was a category 1 at the time. We went and saw “The March of the Penguins” while it was blowing around. Ended up driving the Red Shark in it. Kind of cool. Kind of weird to sit here and be reminded of it. We had discussions about our future while I was there. Should have seen it coming I guess. I always said “Love will be enough” and she said “No, it won’t be.” That was the ultimate sign, really. Wasn’t too much longer before she dumped my ass.

***

Otherwise, I’ve pretty much dodged hurricanes. Well, they’ve dodged me. They seem to go where I have people I love, however. I think Florida had five or six that year.

***

Oh yeah, did see a tropical depression in Key West when Josh and I were there. We were supposed to go fishing in a skiff, but the guy canceled on us due to Erika (I think, but am not really sure).

That was a bummer of a trip. It was also Em and I’s 3rd anniversary. Something she really looked at as a huge landmark in our relationship at the time. Why? Because.

***

Not having the weather channel kind of makes this more exciting. Well, not having any television. If I didn’t work for a newspaper, I’d probably not even know about it. That, of course, makes me seek it out on the intrawebs, but I don’t think I’d really care otherwise.

The tropical updates don’t have the same impact on a computer screen. Especially after watching the same lame-ass William Shatner Priceline commercial every, single, fucking time. They seriously can’t put a different add on there. No wonder no one wants to watch sponsored videos on line.

I’ve got canned foods up the ass, along with a gaggle of water and lots of charcoal. Of course, I have nothing to really cook with the charcoal, and if I did have a freezer full of meats and fish and such, it would all go bad anyway if the thing hits and there is no power for a good while.

Candles, check. Flash light. Check. Batteries, check. Gas in car, no, but I’ll fill ‘er up tomorrow on the way to work. Hopefully, I have enough money to do that. I paid rent today and I’m a bit worried about my cash flows. It truly sucks being so stupid as a youngster, and never being paid enough to make a dent in it.

But, fuck the whining. I did it. And seriously, many things I did with that credit and such are my best memories and the ones that inspire me to sit here and type. Sit here and type. Sit here and type.

Sanity is, most certainly, overrated.

bad haiku

It had to happen.

But only what, four, five nights in?

Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.

So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.

Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.

Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?

At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.

Ha. It still bothers me.

Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.

I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…

But anyways…

I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.

Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.

Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.

So, any ideas?

Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.

Boo.

This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.

And it will happen.

Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.

This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.

(Bad) Haiku

I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?