Saturday, December 23, 2006

There are two types of people: those who want to be rock stars and those who want to rock.

Because some people will never know, because there’s just no learnin’ ‘em. I was so much older once, I dumber than that now.

You can never tell … but look at it this way … or if you would … just remember … when Johnny comes marching home…

I am looking for a girl that can bring out the darkness. I am looking for a girl that can make me as crazy as I know I might be. Apply within.

By transitive property anything is possible. Math is the music of the unknown universe, ubiquitous silence of the teeming masses, language of all the rotting gods. Let us stand on the mountains built by those who came before and piss on the houses of those who will come after. There is only the interminable boredom of now. Let there be doubt. And it was good; or something.

I like it. Even if nothing else has changed and we are dying like we were yesterday, I am better than I was before. It makes it easier to deal with the monotony. But waking up is just as hard. Work is bullshit. But don’t tell anyone, the workers of the world might decide to unite and lose their chains, quit there jobs. And then who would process all the oil we went to war for? And who would make the SUVs we need all the gas to drive? And who would help desecrate the planet? Such a debacle. All because I am lazy. And beautiful.

For some reason we all enjoy destruction. If I were to ask you a question … (she slapped me in response)… wailing is the new black. So is the old black. Go figure. The family that stays together still doesn’t understand the second son. I’m the little brother. Black sheep black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir. Yes, sir. But we decided to keep it off the market in an effort to stem supply and increase demand there by increasing profit. You know how capitalism is… Them’s the breaks. The stories we tell are all the same. It’s just an effort to get back to a home I never had. A feeling I can almost remember. Freedom to be myself before any of my friends and teachers told me I was wrong. Before TV told me how to behave and my I could understand that I was an outcast. In the before time. In the long long ago. Who goes to carousel tonight?

Life is comedy. Tragedy is all in the details; a myopic failure to see the bigger picture. Pins and needles. Macbeth with a gun; his speech bubble says ‘bang, with a smile!’ Hamlet holding his skull; he takes Advil for his Excedrin headache and whiskey to wash all the dreams down. Romeo decided to go back to Rosalind; she did this thing with her tongue that Jules could never really figure out. Who the fuck knows anymore. I fired the censors. And smoke filled the bar, haze obscuring everything. There was a fight that I shied away from. And a bottle that I didn’t pay for. But everything else was noise and the moment. Get me my longsword, ho. And get me another beer from the fridge, too… ho.

Watch Ye Therefore isn’t a real band. I wonder what a psychologist would try to tell me based on the lies I try to tell her…

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

learning to trust the madness/ignore the voices

Two seemingly inconsequential gentlemen stand on a street corner in the rain. One is called Sims. He wears a gun in a shoulder holster hidden well beneath an appropriately tailored suit. The other also wears a gun. They have silencers. A necessary addition. They are waiting for a man to meet them. When he arrives they will kill him, take everything he has including the drugs and all identifying documents, and leave. If asked why they would do such a thing, why they would consider such a heinous act so commonplace, the one called Sims would reply simply that ‘the money was right.’ Sims is the more talkative of the two. In fact, to the casual observer it would seem as if he talks needlessly as if only to hear the dulcet tones of his own voice. The casual observer, as is often the case, would be wrong. The other is a veritable stoic, a man hewn from granite and not given in the slightest to the frivolities and excesses of his companion. It would not be wrong to say that these two seemingly inconsequential gentlemen are often and easily underestimated.

Life has fallen off of late. I knew it was going to happen. Deep down. You would not be wrong in assuming that I am a rather intuitive young man capable of seeing deeply into the flaws and imperfections of the human soul. You would also not be wrong in assuming that I was just dumped for an investment banker/consultant/entrepreneur far more successful and capable of social advancement than I. I suppose I should have learned from the Monkees. Or perhaps just have known better than date a girl with a taste for the finer things in life; like following every possible ill advised fashion trend featured in a magazine and a unquenchable thirst for all things unaffordable. Freelancing just didn’t bring enough home, I guess. Or maybe I am missing the point. To be honest, I don’t know why she left. I have a meeting in the morning. Nothing else seems to have stopped.

The man arrived carrying a nondescript duffle bag containing either illicit drugs or a clever ruse intended to imply the presences of the former. The matter is of no importance as he was about to die. Perhaps thoughts were rushing though his head at the moment. Perhaps in a moment of prescience he saw his impending doom and his life mysteriously flashed before his eyes in a series of poorly edited video clips. The one called Sims moved out of the shadows and into the dim pool of light cast by a flickering streetlight. Despite the fact that they were in the middle of a street there was no danger of traffic or notice. No one respectable would come to these parts. It would be an open acknowledgement of the inherent disparity that allows society to function. The other gentleman remained in the shadows. He signaled his presence by lighting a cigarette. The newcomer was far to calm. Either he was a cop or he was an idiot. It became increasingly clear that he had not foreseen his demise. The last look on his face was priceless, or would have been to a collector of such things. A tree fell in the forest and no one heard. There was nothing to mark the act save the indifference of his killers. Perhaps one should be amazed what is truly possible when the money is right. Perhaps it is none so amazing after all.

The meeting went the way I expected. I got approval for the story and a smaller advance than I had been hoping for. The man was a self-indulgent fuckhead. I knew from the moment he started the meeting: “What’s the sound of one hand clapping? Ha! Ha!” What’s the sound of one hand flipping you off? I ignored the comment fully aware that he did not want a response, just a tacit acknowledgement of his subversive wit. I smiled and gave him a nod. He went right on talking. I find that with his type it’s best not to talk. He doesn’t want to hear what anyone has to say. How could he? We all know he’s an ass. Not feeling any better than before, I spend five minutes sitting at a coffeehouse trying to decide how best to slip into oblivion now that I have nothing to do and no promises to keep. I also wait for a phone call.

Monday, December 18, 2006

Heat Death in America: Drifting Sun

Of course I am a liar. How else could I make any of this look good/work at all? It’s not that it is wrong or even emblematic of some situational ethics or moral relativism. It’s just that the truth is just as much of a fiction as anything else. So why hide from it? Why deny it and by doing so lose power over it. I am the creator of my own destiny because I have chosen to manufacture it myself. I have chosen to be the madcap liar writing my profanities on the underground walls of all existence. Wait for me, I’ll find you soon enough. Wait for me.

There is vitriol enough in me to power three punk bands and several excessively angsty books of bad poetry and even worse pen and ink drawings of the flawed circuitry of my mental process. God, but the suburbs bring out the worst in me. Ever the misanthrope I daily find myself wishing only to raise a black flag and jolly roger my way around my happily corrosive community raping and pillaging the automatons back to something vaguely resembling being alive.

The fun no longer has any bearing on life. The sun has drifted from its cardinal path and now refuses to show the way. Star charts having already lost their importance have now lost all meaning. And we refuse to acknowledge that anything has changed. I think I should get another beer. Or maybe it was take a nap. I can’t remember which silently complacent activity is appropriate to the situation. Perhaps this is the moment in which I was supposed to learn to cry.

It’s like I am so too easily distracted; confused and yet entirely aware. I know what is going on even when I refuse to pay attention. Osmosis, it seeps in. the tape keeps looping through my brain, the scanners playing old cartoons that no one ever drew and graphic and disturbing scenes that one can only hope will never see the blinding light of day. There is so much there, to distill it, to bottle it, to pour it over ice and drink it slowly and sensually is damn near impossible. I barely know how to begin. There is no road map, no X marks the spot for this treasure hunt. No wonder I refused to choose a path in the woods. No wonder it didn’t make a difference. Lack of wonder is the leading cause of heat death in America.

I was born in the fading autumn of ’83. the only moment of significance in any otherwise stultifying era, I brought the promise of a new era; a road made straight and then destroyed and made the way I imagined it should be. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything. The story is always better when you invent the ending yourself. So here is the beginning of my manifesto. Here is my anthem for yet another generation of disenfranchised disillusioned dissolute youth. Raise your fists my brothers and sisters for we are a people born of defiance and we will rail against the coming dawn with a beer in both hands.

One day we’ll look back on all of this and smile. But on that day I won’t be alone, so I might just be smiling for her.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

tales old men tell when the fires are low and they are filled with too much drink

There is a forest at the edge of the world. A deep, silent forest of old growth trees that have been there since before the dawn of mankind. There is knowledge in this forest; and such memory. But few have ever treaded within its shrouded depths and with good reason.

Venture not to the center of the forest, lest ye perish. There is a single tree that marks the center of the forest and it is the Tree of Death. Counterpoint to the Tree of Life from which springs forth eternal life and wellbeing, this is a tree of such malignant nature that it will bear no fruit. No leaves or blossoms will grace its branches. Some would claim that it is simply another old dead tree in a forest full of old dead trees. But this tree is not dead. She pulses with unholy life; black sap coursing through her. The Tree of Death is home to the Devil’s own watchers, the First Murder of Crows. They are the gatekeepers. For this tree is the second gate of hell. Do not think the gate lightly guarded because no threeheaded beasts are extant. The First Murder of Crows are no mere birds. The Eaters of the Dead; consumers of both decrepit soul and pallid flesh.


There is a tree that stands alone in a barren wasteland at the farthest edge of space and time. There are no roads that lead to this tree. There is nothing and so very much of it. It is a gnarled tree, a serrate oak, utterly useless and completely out of place. There are many names for this tree, but the most popular name, the most well known appellation for this seemingly indistinct tree in the middle of nowhere is the Tree of Death.

The leaves and blossoms of the tree are ever and always black, petals falling to earth gently drifting upon the breeze, like a silent omen of destruction. The fruit, withered and unappetizing, is the color of dried blood. To eat of the fruit of the Tree of Death is to know Eternal Darkness; to dine with Lucifer and drink with Belial; to join the Great Hunt and the ranks of the thrice-damned Goatherds.

The Tree of Death was once surrounded by trees of every description; the centerpiece of the greatest garden ever known to man. But with the Fall of Man, what once brought the knowledge of good and evil could only now provide death. Its corruption spread until it destroyed the rest of the garden by its own damned presence and its root system ran all the way to the depths of hell where it found fuel for its insatiable nature. And so it stands alone, on the edge of space and time in a land long forgotten by the race of man.

Two roads meet in the desert. They travel just slightly off the cardinal directions, but only ever so slightly. This is no ordinary crossroads, this is the Crossroads. This is where Legba tuned Robert Johnson’s guitar and the blues were born for the price of his soul. In the southwestern corner there is a tree, a hangman’s tree. The noose hangs such that the dying may be framed by the arc of the setting sun. This tree is no ordinary lynching tree. This is the Tree of Death. The Devil’s own gallows, a direct conduit to hell and thinning of reality: one of the easiest places to cross beyond.

There are many stories about the Tree of Death. Some would have you believe they are only stories, myths not worth living by, superstitions not worth keeping. But those people would be wrong. The Tree of Death is as real as the Tree of Life, providing balance as all things in nature must. There are some that would say the Tree of Death is a cherry tree with black petals or an oak tree complete with a hangman’s noose. The truth of the matter is something else entirely. The Tree of Death is no ordinary tree and thus it cannot be classified by ordinary terms. It is much much more. To underestimate the Tree of Death, to dismiss it casually, would be rash and inadvisable to say the very least.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

All Art is Autobiography

I have an aversion to plot. I know that. Little actually happens in the stories I write. What with the majority of my existence being internal, it’s hard to care overly about external action. And yet for some reason I write minimalist instead of psychological. I might be wrong in classifying my writing as minimalist. I don’t know for sure what that entails. I’ll look it up.

It’s about time the literary world was handed an upside down urinal. And I am just the fucker to piss in it.

Willful ignorance and hypocrisy are the great traits of my generation.

The beginnings of an UnEnlightenment manifesto:
The death knell has sounded upon the cleverly arranged and intentionally ironic silver bells of postmodernism. It turns out that none of us really give a shit that the world is all meaningless simulation. I mean, it doesn’t change how we live, how we got to make a living. And if we are drinking more and doing more drugs as a consequence, well we probably would have anyway. You can call us degenerates. I’m pretty sure we won’t be insulted. Except for that one guy in the corner who is going to kick your ass, but that’s only because he thought you said something else and he will apologize for it and buy your drinks for the rest of the night. So no worries really. I couldn’t read the rest of the napkin, so I’ll make some more up later.

Face it; there is basically nothing that is not rendered completely impotent in the face of our apathy and indifference. We know the world is going to end. We know that shit is fucked up and should be changed. But we know that we aren’t going to make a difference; that we can’t make a difference. Spot overestimating your importance. So we do what any sensible twentysomething would do in our position – we get fucked up and enjoy ourselves best we can. We deserve it. Our jobs are shit. Our lives are shit. Our apartments are shit. It’s not escapism. It’s taking back the weekends for everything we lose during the week. Because I don’t feel that I need to stand for anything in order to be authentic. I already know that authenticity is a lie. That selfsame passive sense of distrust that Oda Saku knew so well. This bottle is for him.

Towards a nonexistent purity (of essence or some such other): keep crossing those thresholds. Open the doors, ever changing new experiences. All the better to see you with my dear. Trailing off into whatever.

Plot needs events of significance, it needs action. It needs things to matter and it needs the protagonist to actually do shit. I have difficulty understanding why anyone would want to do that.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Aronson, but you have … AMNESIA!!!

Irony is dead and sarcasm is bullshit. It has been stated that we are no longer living the Postmodern world but that rather we are living in the poorly termed postpostmodern world. Which, of course, is a meaningless designation that critics use to cover over the fact that they know the old world has passed but they 1. don’t have a fucking clue what is going on now and b. are not clever enough to come up with a real and lasting name for this newest of bullshit “periods” of art. I would like to think I am somewhat familiar with the concepts, but now is not the time to delude myself into make a blanket statement on art. After all, art is just a three letter word. As much an abstract construction as anything anyone else has ever said about it. I don’t know that the though is original though. So it would be premature for you superfans to be quoting me on it just yet.

There are a lot of things that I desperately feel the need to write, to write on, to write about, and yet I find myself unable. I have opinions on life outside of failed relationships and the merits of bourbon, scotch, tequila, gin, India pale ale, and other assorted means that the Muse uses to open the airways and fill the world with sound and glory. I need not go into a discussion on whether or not as an American I should prefer our one national spirit, bourbon (and it better be from Kentucky) or whether it is indeed acceptable to drink the national spirits of other nations: scotch, tequila, rye, London dry gin, Russian vodka (no grape fed substitutes allowed). As a relatively well traveled and cosmopolitan man, I can assure you that all spirits are equally valid and should be enjoyed for everything they have to offer. Life is, after all, mostly dull when you are sober. It doesn’t get any more interesting after drinking, but it sure fucking seems that way.

I want to call myself an anarchist. Not just because it is so punk rock or because I have an affinity for crazy Russians (though the statement has been made about me and I guess might in some ways be true, but I would imagine it is mostly coincidence). I do find myself with an affinity for the downtrodden and outcast, but again, that isn’t really a reason to be an anarchist. I just plain don’t believe in authority. I don’t believe that the imposed hierarchies are capable of governing and I don’t think that governing is a worthwhile concept anyway. For those of you unaware of the political aspects of an intellectual belief in anarchism, I would now direct you to look it up (the internet is good for that sort of thing, try wikipedia). Because, just in case you were wondering, I am not advocating people run around killing and raping each other. The Golden Age of Piracy has passed. Murder is no longer an acceptable means of resolving a bar fight or a cheating girlfriend. The problem, however, lies in the fact that despite what I would like to believe intellectually, I cannot allow myself to reasonably sustain views that are wholly impractical or unrealistic. I do my best to act in accordance with my beliefs, the modern world be damned, but I cannot deny the power structures that be quite that easily. Falling off the grid is no so easy as I would wish. I was about to quote Hamlet here, but it would have been awkward and most readers would have missed the line entirely finding it to be only one of my anachronistic phrases (as if I made most of those up on my own, too).

So I have this friend named Jeff. We went to college together. And that was enough. There was more, but that was enough. He is a big fan of professional wrestling and blonde girls with deep tans. One might immediately think that Jeff is obviously a boor and the worst example of American culture (yes, he does go to and enjoy strip clubs). But that is because your average American is an pretentious self-involved dipshit far too impressed with their utterly unimpressive selves. Suffice it to say, if you do not like Jeff, you are a loser and it is your own damn fault. The issue really is that Jeff has decided to become whole heartedly what your average intellectual wishes he could be but can only pretend to be with an ironic detachment because, after all, that is the nature of the mother fucker modern society has become. As far as I am concerned, Jeff has is better than most of you degenerate bastards. He knows what he wants – beautiful blondes. And he goes after what he wants – beautiful blondes (some of them are also cheerleaders and other such archetypes of perfection). So if you are jealous, be jealous. But do not begrudge him for going after and getting what he wants. Because that would be überlame and make you something of a assclown. It isn’t that Jeff knows everything or has the secrets of the universe hidden in his fifth pocket. Nothing quite so dramatic as that. Mostly it is that Jeff doesn’t worry about the bullshit and (surprise surprise) actually goes after what he wants. Me, I want different things out of life and women and the universe and everything. But that doesn’t mean that Jeff doesn’t have his shit figured out just well enough.

And the world goes on. Because what would be the point if it didn’t?


***
”The Defense Department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid.”
- Goose

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Perception is Reality. I am not.

Fear not, I have a story in final revision (I actually made it to a seemingly satisfactory ending, so that is kind of a big thing. I just need someone else to review it and let me know if I am wrong before I reveal my veins to the masses.) so it shouldn't be too long before I get back to business as usual. At which point I will break with tradition and do something else. Unless I am too busy finishing up those dangerous and potentially life threatening applications.

In the mood for damn near anything, I am drinking a stirred martini in a rocks glass, listening to Lil Jon because for reasons beyond comprehension I just needed to get crunk, and learning about heavy metal and what life was really like when I was in first grade from the sage Chuck Klosterman, and I needed to write. I am often so compelled. I have always found it best to yield to the temptations. Besides, what else was I going to do? The Office isn't on for more than an hour.

I know that I write in what has come to be a rather noticeable and definable idiom. I call it "love and alcohol" because, well, I think that it sounds good. There is more to my personality, to my thoughts, wishes, and dreams. There is, as I often write (though usually in stories that never make it past the first or second draft) such potential. In me. There is such potential in me. I don't just write about twentysomething degenerates with an artisitic bent and a penchant for rampant boozing. I just find most of what I otherwise write lacking in what can be best termed "believability." I can't write about success or life in an office or 13th century poverty because I can't picture myself in such a situation. And I have a difficult time writing as someone else. I am incredibly vain, it almost always a bad thing for me. There actually are a few rarely seen examples of my extention beyond the world of my understanding and my own severely claustrophobic experiences. And included in those passages are what I at times consider some of my best writing. Unattached to my own fears and insecurities, the stories take on a character from a deeper and more dangerous portion of my unconscious. Unfortunately, they are the main set of writings that I cannot figure to finish. I don't know where the story goes and the characters are either unable or unwilling to tell me how their stories end. Ideally, this is what I would learn from grad school. Ideally. But fuck if I know that it will work or not. As the due dates roll ever nearer I become less and less sure of my worth...

Do my fears and insecurities come through in my writing?

I think I had better stop now. If I keep going, I am pretty sure that I am going to get too drunk or too lonely and start begging someone anyone to make my life better. And that is the last thing I need. I need to work through this on my own.

The Universe is dying of boredom. Scientists call it heat death. I know better.

Monday, November 13, 2006

God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son."

The Devil, well he likes to gamble. What you might call his sin of choice.

Why all my poets made of sand? Why are all the prophets dust?

Caligula got a bad rap.

Today, a day much like anyother, happens to be the 23rd anniversary of my birth. Twenty-three years ago in a small hospital in a smallish suburb of Tokyo a much smaller version of myself was brought forth into the world screaming. I have continued to scream. Though the words have changed and there are less nurses around. Perhaps I should remedy that. Perhaps.

I have nothing truly to say, being mostly sober and bored, but I sit here contemplating life and drinking $3 California "champagne" - you can't go wrong with Andre, believe you me. I don't know where any of this is going, so I mostly going to just let things work themselves out. First I have to go turn off my dvd player. It is playing the top menu 30 second promo thing and it is repeating ad nauseum and becoming quite vexing. Better...

So here I am. Sitting alone in a house full of nothing, books. I drink nowhere near as heavily as a good prophet should and far too much for a normal person just looking to get by, just looking to stay alive until the end. So that might be the source of my problems. I cannot live to excess. Not well anyway. I can't commit to it. I live my excess in moderation. Too damn stoic if you ask me. Need more cynic, more Diogenese. And now I wonder how it is I feel comfortable waxing Greek philosophical on topics which I have only the most rudimentary of knowledge. That might be another of my problems. That I know a little about a lot of things but I don't know a lot about any specific thing. I have no real interest to which I have devoted myself and my study. And the vagaries of my knowledge base and backstory are starting to catch up with the fact that I still want to write without the burden of six months of research. I have never been a fan of research. If something is worth knowing, I have probably only stumbled upon it by chance. Though I must insist that Fate not be invited to my tea party. But that leaves us nowhere...

I feel like I was born in the wrong generation. Perhaps that is the view of all budding dissidents. A harkening for days long past, for the freedoms of our fathers. I cannot fully say. Maybe I just haven't found my scene yet. Or figured out who I am. Because I haven't really figured out which one of the voices in my head is mine, or if they all are, which one I should trust as most reliable. The relative isolation of my twenty-second year taught me little save that I am a serious of unfortunate contradictions. Ask me about it later, it's a long long story.

In case you were wondering, (and if you weren't then I guess we aren't as similar as I might have hoped) yes, I am drinking my "champagne" straight from its oh so inexpensive bottle. It brings a sense of absurd "manliness" to the whole circus. I will be drinking martinis later provided I have enough initiative to actually mix them. Elsewise I will be drinking gin. I needed a change from months of bourbon. I destest patterns and routines. It's how think, and thus I feel the continual need to flee from what I know and can understand. I wonder if that is as unusual as it sounds. Interstingly enough this is the first time I have diagnosed myself with this absurd malady, I wonder if it will catch on and find its way into something I write. I wonder if I will ever get anything I write finshed. It would seem the Muse has taken a vacation/doesn't really give a shit about me anymore. What can you do? The world is naught but shifting sand. Under the brilliant unchanging sun.

Doubt, because it has to end sometime.

I'll think of something. In time, I hope...

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Who died and made you Emperor Hirohito?

It has been some time since I have sat down and composed a blog post that wasn't a completed piece of prose or an arbitrary poem I had written while consciously not writing the serious work I have committed myself to completing. It would seem that I have begun to take my writing too seriously, that I have begun to give it the weight of things unknown and thus I have long been unable to write the freeflowing gobbledigoop pieces of grandious bullshit I made this blog known for. Since the whole 3 of my readers have since moved on to other things, I am mostly writing this for myself and my own well being. But as I have always done everything for myself and in what I concieved to be my own best interest, this is no new thing and so I will not fear it. Fear rules far too much of my life, I will not grant it more. Regret has paid in advance for the space and I am not a man to breach a contract. There are rules to this world. There are rules.

It's not that I am a bleeding heart, that I feel for the depressed and the downtrodden as if they are in some way better people: saints all and closer to god. It is not the case. But life could be better than this. It could be so much better.

There have been thoughts recently of my idiom. Of what it is I write about and why it is I write about such matters and moreover why I write about such matters in the manner that I find myself writing about such matters. It is the case of fate, I may tell you, that I have come to write about love and alcohol in a the style of a degenerate confession. Or maybe it is that my youth has, despite my over-reliance on the lie as a means to resolve any situation, brought about in me a need for sincerity; for authenticity. Long did I disbelieve that it had become the case that I, like the burai-ha, was obsessed with autheticity. But it would seem that I could outrun that fleet-flooted demon for only so long. And such a time has arrived that I must confess that sincerity, or the veil of truthiness must be present in order for me to feel comfortable about my work. I cannot in good conscience write about happy people or sober people or people with real jobs in cubicles with real families in the suburbs and real relationships that will end in marriage that will end in divorce. It just rings false with me. I write what I know, what I have come to know. And it just so happens that that is myself and the small fraction of my generation that has said, with fists raised in defiance, that we don't want your life, your bullshit, or your money. With our passive sense of distrust and our complete lack of ideology we go gently into that good night with one hand down our pants and the other holding some bottle or another of cheap booze. This is life. Because everything else is pale and silent.

I didn't have a motive when I began this piece. There wasn't anything particular I wanted to say. Taking a break from watching a movie, venting about the current story I am having predicable trouble ending, I just needed to get back to my roots. If anyone reads this, welcome home. If no one reads this, then I guess we got what we paid for.

Here's to the next step. Here's to bookshelves full of books you have never gotten around to reading, and not just because they are bad and useless books. Here's to not being able to finish an application. Here's to not knowing why I want something better for myself, why I want something different, why I want anything at all. Here's to being alone watching tv on a Friday night wondering what to do when the booze runs out. Here's to telling stories, or lies, whatever the difference may happen to be this time.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

A poem for the unbelievers

Oh dull indifferent world
as I scream…

In the wilderness beyond
computers and
the internet…

I know something, someone,
myself;
or did once
when I was younger.

Senses deadened by booze,
and booze,
and more booze.
god, there was so much booze.
I never knew how to say ‘no.’

Drifting furthur on a wave of
broken dreams or …
broken promises or…
the death of hope.
it never ends.

Oh dull indifferent world
as I scream…

There is no end to this desert.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

three bottles of bourbon

Three bottles of bourbon

She left yesterday. Saturday. In the afternoon. Was she really ever here? Everything is hazy. She was supposed to stay all weekend, but… I can’t quite remember now. I feel the shadow of her presence, smell a whiff of her perfume. But then I look around at all the squalor and … doubt.

There are a lot of boxes of Chinese takeout. More than normal, more than for one person. Did we order that? It smells old. Friday night, I guess. Bottles of beer fill the table, the trash. But that’s normal. The two bottles of bourbon feel excessive. I don’t usually drink that heavily, unless…

I look for my notebook. If I drank that much I must have written something. Maybe something good, something really good, something useable. If it was legible.

The ashtray is full. But not all of them are mine. I don’t smoke lights. She was here. I can’t believe I brought her here. Why would she have come? Why must she have thought? Why did she stay? More importantly, why did she go?

I find my cell. Six missed calls. Three messages. My mom, my brother, and her. I think I am surprised, but I don’t know if I should be. Why did she leave? What did I do? Did we have a fight? Did I do something wrong? Why would I have drunk so much? Not much could have pushed me to that. Unless, no, couldn’t be.

I get some water and keep looking for my notebook. I find it, but it’s worthless, as usual. Nothing but gibberish. The more fantastical and absurd meanderings of my unconscious. And I think that was from Thursday. There’s nothing about her. Either there was nothing worth committing to paper, or… Or I couldn’t deal with it and went straight to the booze. Things are starting to clear up and I don’t think I want them to. There wasn’t a fight. But that makes sense. I never could get mad at her. Only at myself. No… We hugged as she left. But then I did I start drinking? And why was she almost crying? That sad all to knowing smile… Oh, shit.

Now I’m afraid to listen to my messages. The ache in the pit of my stomach. The hole in my chest. The panic. But why would she call? What would be left to say? This can’t be good. This really can’t be good. I don’t want to go on. I need to go on. I call my voicemail, pulse quickening. Mom wonders where I am and why I never call. It barely registers. My brother wonders how I am and why I never call my mom. He’s such a good son. He would never go and drink himself into oblivion like this. But I wasn’t really listening for either of those messages. And now. Her message…

I need another bottle of bourbon.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

three bottles of bourbon

Three bottles of bourbon

She left yesterday. Saturday. In the afternoon. Was she really ever here? Everything is hazy. She was supposed to stay all weekend, but… I can’t quite remember now. I feel the shadow of her presence, smell a whiff of her perfume. But then I look around at all the squalor and … doubt.

There are a lot of boxes of Chinese takeout. More than normal, more than for one person. Did we order that? It smells old. Friday night, I guess. Bottles of beer fill the table, the trash. But that’s normal. The two bottles of bourbon feel excessive. I don’t usually drink that heavily, unless…

I look for my notebook. If I drank that much I must have written something. Maybe something good, something really good, something useable. If it was legible.

The ashtray is full. But not all of them are mine. I don’t smoke lights. She was here. I can’t believe I brought her here. Why would she have come? Why must she have thought? Why did she stay? More importantly, why did she go?

I find my cell. Six missed calls. Three messages. My mom, my brother, and her. I think I am surprised, but I don’t know if I should be. Why did she leave? What did I do? Did we have a fight? Did I do something wrong? Why would I have drunk so much? Not much could have pushed me to that. Unless, no, couldn’t be.

I get some water and keep looking for my notebook. I find it, but it’s worthless, as usual. Nothing but gibberish. The more fantastical and absurd meanderings of my unconscious. And I think that was from Thursday. There’s nothing about her. Either there was nothing worth committing to paper, or… Or I couldn’t deal with it and went straight to the booze. Things are starting to clear up and I don’t think I want them to. There wasn’t a fight. But that makes sense. I never could get mad at her. Only at myself. No… We hugged as she left. But then I did I start drinking? And why was she almost crying? That sad all to knowing smile… Oh, shit.

Now I’m afraid to listen to my messages. The ache in the pit of my stomach. The hole in my chest. The panic. But why would she call? What would be left to say? This can’t be good. This really can’t be good. I don’t want to go on. I need to go on. I call my voicemail, pulse quickening. Mom wonders where I am and why I never call. It barely registers. My brother wonders how I am and why I never call my mom. He’s such a good son. He would never go and drink himself into oblivion like this. But I wasn’t really listening for either of those messages. And now. Her message…

I need another bottle of bourbon.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

here's to happy couples; Jessica and Nicole

here’s to happy couples; Jessica and Nicole
Jessica had wrangled me away from the crowd and back into my bedroom on some premise.  We were doing shots in the kitchen and then something about needing me to do something for her or something.  That I don’t remember what it was is reasonable.  She wasn’t the highlight of my evening.  Plus I didn’t really pay attention to most of what she said.  It was usually useless bullshit.  Who the fuck cares about being in high school anymore?  That was fucking years ago and shit.  

I knew this moment had been coming since I began stringing this little bitch on after meeting her.  She had wanted my sweet sweet shit from the get go.  And there was something about her that drew me in.  A certain naiveté that I couldn’t help but exploit.  I figured it would come to no good.  But when has a thought like that ever stopped me?  I’m a bad man.  A bad bad man.

She had been drinking more than I had.  Not just the shots.  And her tolerance was clearly much lower.  Not everyone is a power drinker like me.  She was one drink away from covering my bed in dinner and half of lunch.  That only made her all the bolder.  She mumbled something about ‘it’s just you and me now’ as she slammed the door closed; not realizing it bounced right back open.  As if I needed more clues that she wasn’t all there tonight.  As if that would have affected anything in the end anyway.

She took off her shirt in what I assume she meant to be a sexy strip tease.  But it wasn’t.  At all.  People should really stick to what they know.  I stopped her before she took off anything else.  Before she got herself so far gone down the line that there would be no recovering any of her misplaced dignity.  Then she tried to make out with me.  Or I guess, she did make out with me.  For a while.  Because I was thinking of the best way to stop her/not thinking of anything at all.  I wasn’t trying too hard.  Even though she wasn’t that great of a kisser.  The rhythm was off.  We just didn’t mesh.  One more reason, not that I really needed it.  In the end.

“Jess.  No.”  I pushed her away.  She almost fell over.  This just wasn’t right.  And not just because she was too drunk to stand.
“Your eyes say ‘no’ but your mouth says ‘yes.’”  She tried to kiss me again.  After all that I couldn’t even laugh at the stupidity.  Clearly I needed to get out of this situation.
“No, my mouth says no.”  She tried to fondle me; down there.  That’s right.  Tried.  
“Widdle Isaac wants to come out and pway.”
“Just stop.  You’re being ridiculous.”  And annoying.  How do I get rid of her?  Why did I even let her back here?  “Go to bed.  Just go to the guest room and sleep it off.”  So long as they aren’t still using it to blaze.  Not that she would be able to tell the difference.
“I want you to be my first.”  That she was so solemn when she said that, coming almost completely out of her drunken haze made me think she had been planning this shit for a while.  That made me even more depressed.  “I want you to have all of me.”  She tried dancing again.  The girl can’t handle it sober.  The results while drunk were beyond pathetic.  
“You’re drunk and deluded.  
“I’m not drunk.”  She fell over.  Just straight up fell on her cute little ass.
“You don’t want me to be your first.  Not me.  Not like this.  You’re the kind of girl who waits till her wedding night.  Or at least until college.  Not till she has had five beers and six shots of plastic bottle vodka.”
“But I luv ya.”  Now I was offended.  She can go ahead and tell me that all she wants when we’re all sober and joking around and I can laugh it off like its nothing.  But not now.  Not like this.  This isn’t love.  I can’t laugh at this.  This isn’t pretend shit anymore.
“No, you don’t.  You don’t even know what love is.”  Love is caring about someone more than you care about yourself.  Not getting drunk and trying to get laid.  Kids these days.  What the fuck is wrong with them?
“But I luv ya.”  As if repeating herself would make a difference.  She tried to kiss me again and I pushed her away.  Again.  She fell.  Again.  She barely even noticed.  She was about to try again.  And probably would have kept trying all night long.  But Nicki came to the rescue.  Sweet relief.

There she was standing in the doorway.  Black hair cascading over her pale skin.  Her perky tits barely covered by some spaghetti strap or another.  It might have been blue.  Or orange.  My bottle of Corazon in one hand and two shots in the other.
“Love him or not, cutie, it ain’t happening tonight.  So why don’t you just find your way back to the rest of the party.  And leave us grownups to talk.”  I had been more than clear and it hadn’t moved Jess in the slightest.  Nicki shows up and Jess scurries out with her tail between her legs.  The fuck are you gonna do?  Though there was quite a pout going on as she stomped out into the living room.  Nicki closed the door.  And locked it.

“Not into the whole schoolgirl fetish?”  That same impish smile.  Does it for me every time.
“Bah.  The schoolgirl fetish is more about knee socks and micro mini plaid skirts than age.  And like every other fashion statement: if you look good, you’ll look good in anything.  If not, you’re fucked.”  Like you.  You would look great as a schoolgirl.  “Thanks for the help.”
“Not a problem, baby.  So why?  I mean, she looks good enough.”
“She’s fucking 16.”
“Which means she is legal in our fair state.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“That wouldn’t bother most of the guys at this party.
“Yeah, well, my friends are degenerates…  I don’t know what it is.  I don’t mind destroying the beautiful, but I guess I draw the line at perverting the innocent.”
“Hate to break it to you, Holden, but she probably won’t be so innocent tomorrow.  With or without your help.”  She held up Jess’ shirt that had been left behind.
“Probably not.  Not going out into that group that drunk and that horny.”
     “And that doesn’t bother you?”     “Not really.  What doesn’t happen to me or around me tends not to concern me.”  I never said I was a nice guy. “But that’s not why you found your way over here.”
“You read me so well.”  Ah, yes: the sarcasm.  I love it when they can keep up with me.  That warm and fucking fuzzy feeling.  Just like that smile.  

She handed me one of the shot glasses and poured them both.

“Here’s to hangovers.”  This was the beginning of something.
“Why not?”  Tonight was going to be a good night.  Or at least it had potential.

We drank a few.  It was a party.  I don’t know what you do at a party.  But we drink.    
“Came alone again, I see.”  I might as well get to the point.  Coming to my house without her boyfriend and drinking is just asking for trouble.
“You are so perceptive.”
“I like to try.”  
“We might be having a few problems on the home front.”  That doesn’t mean anything.  That one has backfired on me before.
“You know, I’m not so qualified for sympathy.”  It’s not that I don’t try.  It’s just that I’m not very good with emotions and all that.
“No shit.  You’ve been trying to get with me for two months now.  Do you really think I would come to you with a bottle of tequila if I was looking for sympathy?”  Now what was that look all about?  It was almost as charged as when I stare into her deep green eyes and then just … drift … away … and.  No!  Gotta stay in the moment.
“Here’s to happy couples.”  We drank some more.  It was a while before she said anything.  She came to me, I waited for her.
“He is just so needy.”  It was sort of out of the blue.  But I wasn’t really surprised.  “Do you realize that he calls me like 10 times a day.  And does he have anything to tell me?  No.  Is that normal?”  Not really normal.  But isn’t that what girls want?  I always thought they wanted guys to call them all the time to check in.
“Uhh.”  I mean I could see that he was too needy.  He wasn’t good enough for her.  And they both knew it.  And I knew it too.  So did most everyone who knew them.  None of us understood how that fucking relationship held together.  But maybe she was asking a lot of him?  Eh.  I’m not going to feel sorry for the fucker.
“Would you do that?”
“Well, no.”  That’s not how I roll.  I hate phones and I am not a fan of relationship stupidity.  Though Brian was kind of a douche.  He was one step away from calling her ‘Shmoopie.’  We took another shot.
“That’s what I mean.  Sometimes I wonder who is really wearing the pants in this relationship.”  Fuck, Nicki.  You should know by now that you will wear the pants in any relationship you ever get into.  That’s just how you are.  Another shot
“You know I know absolutely nothing about relationships…  Ones that work anyway.”  Fuck.  Why did I have to bring up Amy now?  There goes tonight.  There goes months of solid work.  There goes…
“Don’t worry, Isaac.  She’ll come back to you.  One of these days.”  Another shot.  “But in the mean time there is no reason why you should be lonely.”  One last shot before…

There is something comforting about waking up next to someone you care about.  Especially when she is naked.  Also, no we would not make a good couple.  We won’t start dating.  And I don’t know how long it will be before she tells her boyfriend that I occasionally keep her company through the cold dark night.

Veronica

Veronica
It wasn’t love.  I sort of knew that from the start.  We really just aren’t the sort that falls in love.  Not often, anyway.  And I think I had already fucked up my chance.

I met her first while bartending at Disco Vegas.  She was a fan of dirty martinis.  Well, talked to her first at Disco Vegas.  Got to know her first.  But I had seen her before; when I was bouncing at DangerBar!.  She came in with a group of girls.  Bitches really; every one of them.  Or at least they gave off that ‘I’m so much better than you so leave me alone’ vibe.   The kind of shit that has always pissed me right the fuck off.  So I mostly ignored them.  As an attention whore myself, I knew what would bother them the most.  That and the bored and slightly exasperated look I adopted when I let them jump the line.  Eh.  

She was different.  Strayed a bit from the pack.  There was something in her eyes.  Something… honest.  Or true.  Innocent?  Genuine.  There was something genuine in her eyes.  Just the thing to reel a degenerate like me right in.  Of course I didn’t make a move.  Not when she rolled with that crowd.  For all my bluster and bravado, there are still some girls that I am afraid to approach.

I guess there might have been a few looks, a few smiles between us.  But nothing special.  She would come in with her bitch posse and she would leave with one guy or another.  Or she wouldn’t.  She might just get trashed with the girls.  But that’s what we all did.  That’s why people came to DangerBar!.  That’s why we were the hottest fucking joint no one had ever really heard of.  And when it started getting too popular, I got to move on.

Once DangerBar! became the “scene,” Yoshikawa decided that his first little underground venture was doing well enough that he could afford to open a second.  We had become pretty good friends by that point.  I wasn’t just another ex-pat bouncer.  So he asked me to come along and run the bar.  I moved on up.  And I got my own three feet of felt covered absurdity that could only be called a bar in a nightclub in Roppongi.  Disco Vegas, baby.  Disco Vegas.  Why the fuck not?

Veronica started coming to Disco Vegas a few weeks after we opened.  It was better than DangerBar! because it was newer.  And kitschier.  And she was of the sort that followed those kinds of trends.  Mostly because she could.  She was just that type of girl.  She had enough money and enough borrowed taste that she could afford to be on the cutting edge of cool.  Not that I really minded.  After all, she was beautiful.  And what with me being the only bartender, the communication barrier was broken.  Hell.  Yes.

So after a while of her coming in and ordering martinis (with gin - you know, real martinis), we got to talking and she got to staying later and later.  She started coming in on off nights.  And without her uptight buzz kill friends.  One thing led to another and that led to sex.  Eventually we got to going home together.  Her place.  It was much nicer than mine.  Even as a bartender in a reasonably trendy nightspot, I was hard pressed to find decent and affordable accommodations in Tokyo.  Not that that was really the reason her place was better than mine.  She didn’t fucking pay half what I did.  Her place was like a fucking gift from one of the wealthy gentlemen that fell in love with her at her club.  She was always getting nice stuff from her “benefactors.”  I never asked too much about it.  I never cared too much about it.  What she did when I wasn’t around, just didn’t bother me.  I guess that old maxim still rings true: if you are hot, blonde, and willing to take your clothes off, you’ll probably do ok.

Veronica was Australian.  Like me she had studied Japanese in high school and like me, when she found that she didn’t really want to do anything after college, she had come to Tokyo.  Sure all the fast money of the late 80s was nothing but myth and legend now, but somehow it seemed like we were doing better because we were so far away from home.  She had come to Japan as a model.  She had done a few magazine spots or whatever.  Maybe a billboard or two.  I didn’t really listen.  But ultimately it hadn’t worked out.  And so she did what any reasonable girl in her position would do: danced naked for old leering men.  It’s not like she could go home.  There was even less for her there.  Sometimes you just can’t go home.  I knew I couldn’t.  Something was missing.  And I just wasn’t ready.  Things were broken back home.  And even if they weren’t perfect here, at least they were good enough.

And so we sort of started dating.  Really what it was is that I got to see her during the day.  Afternoon really.  We both worked and drank all night long, so it wasn’t like we were awake during the morning.  Not a fucking chance of that.  And that was great.  She was great.  And we were pretty fucking good together.  Things just worked out.  She was the piece that had been missing during my first year or in Tokyo.  And we had fun.  We had fun.  That was enough.  There were a few fights here and there.  Sometimes I had to go back to my place at the end of the night instead of staying at hers.  But mostly we didn’t take anything much too seriously.  We just had fun together.  And I left it at that.

Then it was August.  I had been in Japan for two years of my young life.  And I had been dating Veronica for the last eight months of them.  And it had been a great 8 months.  Or six and a half.  We had been getting into more and more fights.  Over stupid shit too.  I couldn’t understand why she was always blowing up at me over the smallest fucking things.  She just kept getting pissed that I didn’t care that other guys wanted to sleep with her.  Of course they wanted to fuck her.  She’s hot.  Then I got it.  And it fucking blew me away.  She wanted more.  More than I was probably able to give.  More than I really wanted to give her.  I think it was getting past time I got the fuck out of Dodge City.

I cashed in the return ticket that had been sitting on my dresser for two years.  Things had been stagnant for far too long.  Making the same damn stupid drinks for the same dumb fuck stoned bastards night after night just wasn’t doing it anymore.  And now with Veronica starting to get that old familiar itch, things were exactly stable on the home front.  My job wasn’t changing enough and my girl was changing too much.  Life, man.  It fucking gets you every time.

I didn’t tell her anything for the next 2 weeks.  I just didn’t know how to bring it up.  I was sure that if I told her she would make me stay.  She wanted everything and all of me.  There was no fucking chance she would let me leave.  I knew that if she asked me to stay I would.  And then I would die here.  Slowly.  Long after she had moved on to some other guy on a faster track to wealth, fame, or power, I would still be slinging booze for Yoshikawa at one his “hip night spot for upscale youths.”   I couldn’t do that to myself.  Or maybe we would stay together.  And I could tell my mother that I was “in love with a stripper yo.”  And I would still die here.  Unfulfilled.  Unfinished.  And incomplete.  Because no matter how much Veronica was in love with me, there was another girl.  She was 5,000 miles and 5,000 years away and yet somehow whenever the subject of love came up, she was the only one that ever came to mind.

The last time I saw her was at the train station.  She was going back to her place.  And in a rare move I was going back to mine.  I had packed up yesterday.  Still unable to tell her anything.  We had our last kiss.  Nearly as passionate as our first.  I was this close to going back to my place and unpacking, saying to hell with it all and staying.  Just for her.  Just for that.  Just for one more.  I watched her get onto her train.  She waved as it pulled away.  I waved back.  It was raining.  I just stood there on the empty platform staring at nothing for a long time.  When I finally came out of my trance and looked at my watch I realized that I had missed my own train.  I had to wait 40 minutes for the next connection.

And then I just left.  I would like to think of it in terms of the Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset.  But that wasn’t it.  Maybe it was closer to chasing Bob Lind’s elusive butterfly.  Or maybe I was just cutting and running.  Leaving her before she left me.   Or maybe I actually though I had a chance at fixing what I had broken years ago.  Whatever it was, I still left.  I couldn’t say goodbye.  I don’t know how.

While I was in the airport, right up until take off, I kept thinking about how many times she would try calling.  About what she would do when she finally went round that little shit box apartment I had called home for far too fucking long and found it emptier than usual.  About how long it would take her to find someone new.  And if she would really miss me at all.  Knowing all the while that she was probably better for being rid of me.  But once the cabin doors closed and the plane started to taxi, I realized that I didn’t care.  

As we were taking off I thought about Amy for the first time in a long time.  I wondered if she still felt the same was as she did when I left.  I guess it was about time I called her.  I guess it was about time I found out if I really could fix all the shit I fucked up.  I hope so.  I hope so.

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good

I’m just a soul whose intentions are good

Drunk on whiskey and dreams, I fall asleep on my couch.  Alone.  Again.Tuesday.  My cell rings at 4:37 am.  But I don’t answer it.  I’m half asleep.  And still drunk.  And I’m just not ready to talk to her yet.  Besides, I already know what she’s going to say.  And I don’t have a good story to spin to her.  That’s tomorrow’s bullshit.  I fall back asleep.My cell rings at 4:51 am.  I answer it and toss it across the room.  I can still hear her yelling.  I groan and get up.  I take a piss and head back.  I hang up the phone.  She was still yelling.My cell rings at 5:07 am.  I just let it ring.  My cell rings at 5:11 am.  I still don’t answer it.  I am too drunk and too tired to give a shit.  She has to give up eventually.My cell rings at 5:20 am.  I don’t hear it.  I have fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep.  And not even her rage can wake me up now.She doesn’t call again the rest of the morning.  Or the next day.  Instead she calls all of our friends.  Tries to turn them to her side.  Convince them that I am the asshole.  Dave tells me about it at work.  I’m not surprised.  She’s done it before.  She does it every time.  She’s never happy when we fight unless she wins, convinces me that she won, and then tells the world all about it.  As if they really need to know our business.  I am getting tired of it.  My friends are getting tired of it.  Dave told me to dump her.  Said she was pissing him off.  He won’t answer her calls anymore.  Sounds familiar.Thursday.  My cell rings at 3:57 pm.  She wants to apologize.  I tell her it’s over.  She starts yelling.  She calls me an asshole.  I put the phone down and walk away.  I can hear her from the bathroom.  I sigh.  At least it’s the last time…

Bethany; visions

Bethany; visions
I have been drinking myself to sleep for a bitch of a while now.  The days drift by in the same desperate haze.  The nights are so drowned in beer and tequila that I can barely find my way to the surface.  Not that I’ve been trying.  I gave up treading water in this dream pool long long fuck long ago.  Life goes on, as it must, but no one was saved.  No one ever is.

Bethany came into my store the other day.  God, but she was a vision of beauty in this dark and decaying world.  She smiled at me and all the nightmares went far far away.  Her icy blue eyes saw right through my shallow façade and into my empty sad sorry soul.  And then I forgot about the killer fucking hangover I had (it didn’t take long for me to remember).

I didn’t talk to her.  I couldn’t.  I didn’t know how.  I mean, she was hot.  And that is so fucking intimidating.

That was 3 weeks ago.  I have since said ‘hello.’  She might have smiled at me.  Or she might have just been being nice.  Or it might have been a trick of the lighting that I just imagined and turned into this big deal.  Doubt was never my friend.

So I have been writing more.  And that has been good for me.  And I have been drinking more.  And that has been much the same for me.  

When the highlight of your life is saying ‘hello’ to a beautiful customer who comes in 3-4 times a week, there is really no reason to stop drinking the rest of your life away.  What else is there?  It’s not like I had anything else to look forward to.  Maybe that is bad advice.  So maybe don’t follow it.  But when all that’s left is a trip to Desolation Row or thirteen continuous hours of reality television, I know which way I am going every mother fucking time.  Sometimes forgetting isn’t the worst thing that could happen.  Some lives just aren’t worth remembering.

Some people find truth in the bottle.  Or inspiration.  Or god knows what the fuck else.  I never really found anything but booze.  So maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough.  Or maybe I wasn’t drinking hard enough.  The fuck do I know?  But there was nothing else to take away the boredom.  And sweet fucking Christ but there was no way I was going back to that unarmed.

And work just dragged.  There was no life there.  We were all desperate for something; something different; something better.  We knew everything was fucked but not all of us had given up hope yet.  It is just a matter of wanting to do something about it.  It’s not as easy as you smug bastards seem to think.  Or maybe you never had dreams no one believed in.  That you barely trusted.

“Hey, Bethany… the usual?”  My week has now hit a peak.  I am coming into work hammered tomorrow and I don’t give a shit.  Life is a meaningless wreck.  Bring on the mother fucking booze.  

Tonight it is whiskey.  Cocktails and dreams.  Lost wandering ramblings three cigarettes and delusion set me straight on my way.  And the Muse hits me in the face with a baseball bat called Jack Daniels.  So I write another story about misery or boredom or life looking up or whatever it is I do when I am drunk.

“Hi, Bethany.  How are you today?”  You look beautiful today.  Just like every other day.  Day.  What day is it, anyway?  Am I getting paid soon?  I am out of booze.  And rent is coming due soon, I think.  Or was that last month; week; Tuesday; whatever.  Huh?  She said something and I missed it.  Smile.  Pretending to be pretty is all I fucking got.

Have you ever had difficulty recalling what parts of your life really happened and what parts you dreamt or made up?  

Then it was the weekend.  The one I have been working for all week long.  The guys were busy.  Doing something or other.  And I had nothing else to do, so I drank until I passed out.  On a chair.  I awoke several hours later in a daze.  I couldn’t decide if I wanted to keep drinking, get some water, or take a piss.  While I was pissing, I decided I was drunk.  But too drunk to do anything about it.  I went to sleep.  In my bed.  I think my phone was ringing.  I don’t think I answered it.

Sleeping in a chair doesn’t hurt so much when you are blown out of your fucking mind.  But does it ever fuck up the neck and spine for the rest of the week.  I decided to stop drinking for a day or two.  At least until I could turn my head without trouble.

So it was in one of my rare completely sober moments that Fate slapped me in the face.  Figures.  As if I know how to react when I am sober.  As if I can relate to people, much less girls, much less beautiful women, much less Bethany my utterly perfect female counterpart when I am sober.  It wasn’t that I needed a drink.  I am not an alcoholic.  I just needed something anything a way out.  I had just gotten off work.  Damn.  The fucking timing.  Always the fucking timing.  

Bethany walked in and ordered from someone who wasn’t me.  ‘Hey there, Bethany.  You are beautiful,’ I told myself.  ‘I know you probably hear that a lot from a lot of guys.  And I am sure all of them are more successful than I am.  How could they not be?  But still…’  I had no idea what to say next.  And this was only mumbling inside my head.  If I couldn’t even convince myself why she should talk to me how in the happy hell was I going to convince her?  The world was coming to a standstill.  It was a moment of truth.  Time stopped.  The little dog laughed.  To see such sport.

She sat down two tables away from me.  Of course she wasn’t going to sit at my table.  What the fuck do you think this is, a made for TV movie where even the bad guy gets laid?  She was staring off into nowhere.  And not in the self-reflexive seeing something in the great beyond way that I stare into nowhere while I am trying to write a poem of great depth and meaning or a story that touches the soul of every man woman and child.  No, it was a desperate longing look beseeching the expansive Nothing to take it all back or fix it all or do goddamn something anything other than this please not this.  I wasn’t going to get a better invitation than this.

I went home.  Yeah, so I fucked up the show.  No one knows or cares but me.  Invitations or not, I don’t need to ruin a perfect vision of beauty by actually meeting her talking to her getting to know her and each and every one of her flaws that will destroy break shatter everything I have been dreaming about for the past few months.  Sorry.  Not the way I am going out.  I’ll live lonely still before I go out and do that to myself.  What I need is someone that I don’t have to put on a pedestal.  Someone that I don’t have to idolize before I talk to her.  Do you think there might be a little something wrong with me?  With the way I approach life?  More than just a touch of gray.

And life went on, as it tends to.  And I said hello to Bethany when she came in.  And she said hello to me.  And we smiled.  And did nothing.  Because that’s what people do.  And that’s how shit goes.  I got by.  And pretended it was enough.  And I kept writing sad miserable pieces of degenerate drunkery that I hope to pass off as gold.  

Of course, I kept drinking.  She probably did too.  Alone.  As it was meant to be.  Because if it wasn’t meant to be that way, we would have done something about it.  And we never fucking did.

On second thought, I bet she has a boyfriend.


Katie, a relationship

Katie, a relationship
Regret, ah yes.  My troubled Muse.  How fondly I now think of you, so long have you stayed in my house.  Regret.  Of those things done and those left undone.  Mistakes made, paths not taken.  But this was the big one.  At least, so far.  I don’t know how important she will seem down the line.  But I dwell on the past, not the future.  And so I will continue as I began.  Once it ended I did everything I could to forget her. It didn’t really work.  She may have been my Juliet, but I’ll never be her Romeo.

Katie seemed so perfect when I first met her.  Of course, I was really drunk at the time.

I never loved her.  I can see that now.  I think.  I’m only sure when she isn’t around.  Then everything gets confusing.  Jacob loved her.  Well he might have.  He at least was capable of loving someone other than himself.  Not like Dave…  Or me.  Maybe if Jacob had met her first.  Though she did have those certain “appetites” that would have just fucked Jacob instead.  And he wouldn’t have handled it as well.  But I never loved her.  I hope.  I am pretty certain; almost.  For a while I thought I might.  But that was only because I thought I loved every bitch willing to show me even the slightest attention.  Because clearly that meant they loved me.  Right?  Right.  Even the whores.  Sometimes especially the whores.  And that was Katie.  She loved us all.  She only loved herself.  Goddamn Katie.  She fucked me up.  Real solid like.

I would have to say that the courtship was the best part of our relationship.  It just went so well.  Every sly look, every come hither stare was noticed and reciprocated.  Every joke was a winner.  Every innuendo was understood and surprisingly appreciated.  And for a man who has no touch for subtlety, I was able to convey how I felt for her, how beautiful I found her without telling her.  I still told her.  She was beautiful.  Of course I told her.  But the thing was we just connected.  We fit together.  Our flaws canceled each other out.  As things progressed, I was sure it was “meant to be” or at least that this was going to be a meaningful relationship.  I guess I’m a bad judge.

Looking back on it, it was the perfect place to have my heart broken.  It was so cinematic.  It was so ridiculously out of proportion with respect to the rest of our boring relationship.  It was an epic ending to 3 weeks of passion and 6 months of nothing that special.  It did start off with a bang.  You know the whole cheating on her big man about town boyfriend deal.  I always liked that.  That she felt that I was better than that sellout candyass.  It made me feel for once that I had chosen the right path in rejecting all that common conformist bullshit.  She did break my heart.  But I don’t think I loved her.  I’m not really sure anymore.  I’ve tried to forget.  And I’ve tried to make the break up scene even more cinematic.  That’s what you do if you’re a writer.  Well, not exactly.  That’s what I do, though, as a writer.  I have to make my life interesting or nobody will want to read about it.  How very Tayama Katai of me.  It did seem like a good scene to put into a love story.  I mean there we are sitting there in Murasaki, after having just finished dinner.  The lighting is just right, the mood perfect.  I am about to tell her that I love her (and the way she looks tonight).  I smile.  She smiles back and says so matter-of-factly as to break glass and shatter the last decent elements of my soul and (DOUBT) make me question the purpose of Hope all over again,  “I’ve found someone else.  I’m sorry.”  And then she gets up and walks out of my life for the rest of ever.  I was stunned to say the least.  I mean I know guys always say not to break up with all that bullshit like ‘let’s just be friends’ or ‘it’s not me it’s you’ or some other line, but it really just stuns you when they are so blunt.  That’s when the waiter brought the check.  I tossed it back at him and order a bottle of tequila and a glass of scotch.  

Looking back on it, I should have punched her in the face.  Or raped her right then and there.  But I am a man of words and I have never been a man of action.  I didn’t even think twice about her leaving me with the bill.  Nowhere to go but up.

She was, I don’t know, 5’8” or so with long blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.  She kept her body fit and trim (likely with the manic trips to the gym that I only became aware of later on) and liked to show it off.  Her pants were always skin tight and she loved drawing attention to her perfect ass.  Her shirt was just long enough to show off her belly button ring that was perfectly accented by her tiny nose stud.  To say that she was vain would be an understatement.  She was drowning in herself.  But it was her smile that seemed to draw it all together.  She had a smile that could stop a man in his tracks and make him think that they were the only two people in the world (she still has that effect on me).  Her smile was so genuine, so sincere, so misleading.  

When I met her I was drunk and I didn’t care.  I wasn’t so drunk that I wasn’t aware of things (a few beers and some tequila shots) and when she came down into Cliché, my life came to a screeching halt.  That was my watershed moment.  Now I classify my life in terms of before and after Katie.  Katie came in with Dave’s boyfriend (they were old friends from “back home” or something) but when they got there, Bryan went to find Dave.  Leaving her alone.  I wanted to go talk to her, but wasn’t planning on it since I often make awkward first impressions – I have a tendency to fuck things up.  Also, I was drunk.  I figured I would let another guy go in – I didn’t want a pretty thing like that to be wasted (The Universe could never be so cruel as to waste a beauty like that.  Mankind could never recover from such a blow) – and that way I wouldn’t have to make an ass of myself.  
I went for another beer and all the guys in the bar went for Katie.  But for some reason, one after another, she coolly dismissed them.  Seeing that she didn’t have a drink and not wanting to be the only guy who wouldn’t be able to talk around the damn water cooler tomorrow about how this bitch turned him down (I do love my conformity).  So I walked over.  “The lady will have another … ?”  I looked her way “Extra dry martini.”  “And bring me another shot.”  What the hell, let’s do this shit – and I struck up a meaningless conversation.  I don’t really remember what we talked about – it didn’t really seem important at the time – but unlike all the other guys, I seemed to hit it off with Katie.  I didn’t get any of the normal ‘I really don’t want to talk with you just because you bought me a delicious beverage” signals that normally occurred when I talked to girls (and it wasn’t just because I was drunk either – ok, that I can’t verify, being as I was quite drunk, I might have fabricated much or all of the incident.).  I’m sure it was the normal things – what we do: jobs and otherwise, interests: what movies we like, what actors we hate, random filler – but I can’t say for sure.  Whatever I said, it must have been right because as the night faded into morning we shared a cab.

I was, of course, more than willing.  She was beautiful and any excuse to spend time with her, even something as pointless as taking a cab in the opposite direction of where I should have been headed was to be taken up without hesitation.  I don’t know what provoked her to share a cross-town cab with a guy she had just met.  It could have been the booze.  Or she saw something I don’t.  But when we got to her place, I had no expectation that I would be invited in.  The thought never even crossed my mind.  While I’m sure I was thinking how beautiful she was and how I would like to get with a girl like her, I can’t imagine that I actually considered it seriously.  She was way way out of my league.  I was likely thinking about how expensive this night was turning out to be and did I have enough money for the cab.  I did.  But not for the return trip.  So then I was wondering about where the nearest subway station was.  But when we got to her door and I was anticipating awkward silence, she casually invited me in.  I was too stunned to even consider refusing.  

Her sheets are much softer than mine.

(gratuitous sex scene)

I awoke the next morning early and slightly disoriented (waking up in strange places isn’t that unusual, waking up in strange beds slightly less usual).  Slowly looking around, I saw Katie by her mirror applying her makeup.  She turned and smiled.  I still couldn’t tell you if there is anything more beautiful in the world than Katie when she smiles.  It lights up the room.  Even now she can get my heart fluttering.  

“Hey there sweetheart, I was wondering when you would wake up.”  I smiled.  

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.  I hope you enjoyed watching me sleep.”  She laughed.  It was a beautiful lilting laugh.  Not a care in the world.

I got up and started looking for my clothes.  They were all over the place.  And I was missing a sock.

“Oh, I don’t really want my boyfriend to find out we fucked – he’s kinda possessive.  So you’ll probably want to keep this quiet”  

“Boyfriend?”  She had to be joking.  Obviously she wouldn’t bring me back to her place if she had a boyfriend.  That kind of thing just doesn’t happen.  I mean, I’m a sweet dude and all.  But that shit only happens to James Bond or in the fucking movies or shit.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you know him – Jesse Danbury?”  

“No, but I’ve heard of him.  Something of an important man about town or something.”  How does a girl like her end up dating a douche like that?  I couldn’t believe it.  That Jesse fucker was such a goddamn tool.  And I fucked his old lady.  Bastard had it fucking coming.  It was starting to look like I wasn’t going to be asked over again.

“So you’ll probably want to keep this quiet”  

“Not a problem.  I’m down with O.P.P.”  Silence.  Maybe I am not as cool as I pretend.  “Don’t worry, we don’t really run in the same circles.”  

“Right.”  She walked over to the bed, leaned over and kissed me, “So, when can I see you again?”  I guess you could say I was confused.  

“What about the boyfriend?”  

“What about him?”  Good point.  Why should I care about a fucktard like him?  Except that if he ever found out I might be in some trouble.

“Whenever you want.  I’m not really that busy most days.”  

“How about Tuesday?”  So long?  That was three days away.  How could I go three days without Katie?  It wasn’t humanly possible.  I declined to think on the fact that I had gone my entire life up until now without her.  It lessened the drama of the situation.

“Tuesday works.”  

“Excellent.”  She kissed me deeply and then turned to leave the room.  “Bye sexy, I’ll see you on Tuesday.”  I was stunned.  Sexy?  Yeah, I guess she was right.  I am a pretty fucking hot motherfucker.  She probably just forgot my name.

I would have said something, but she had already left the room.  I found the nearest station and caught the train home.  I needed a nap.

She broke up with Jesse not too long after that.  Or he broke up with her.  I never really asked for the details.  She caught him cheating on her or something.  Sleeping with his boss or his secretary or both.  I would expect anything from a jackoff like him.  Regardless, he went off with some other little thing and she came home to me.  Everything was right with The Universe.  Or so I thought.

First impressions mean a lot.  But they aren’t always right.  When I first saw Katie I thought that she was flawless.  She was the most beautiful woman in the world.  She was perfection in a box.  I ammended that view a bit over the length of our relationship.  I mean, she is beautiful.  I still think so.  But she isn’t the “most beautiful woman in the world.”  There is no such thing as the “most beautiful woman in the world.”  She has flaws.  We all do.  But I never really minded them.  I thought the relationship was going fine.  Why would I mind a few minor things?  I didn’t think it would make a big difference in the end.  I’ve been wrong before.


  • Isaac, you are so emotionally guarded, I can’t get through to you.

  • What?  What are you talking about?

  • You never let me close.  You never let me in.

  • I let you close all the time.

  • Emotionally.  You never let me close emotionally.

  • Oh great.  Not this speech again.

  • It’s important, Isaac, it’s important if we are going to have a future.  It’s important if you don’t want me to leave.

  • Katie, I’m trying to write.  Can’t this wait?

  • No.  It can’t wait.  I can’t wait.  I’ve been waiting for you for too long now…

(intermission)

  • You’re breaking up with me?

  • It’s nothing personal.

  • The fuck it isn’t.  You’re breaking up with me.  How much more personal does it get?

  • Well, you had to know this was coming.  I mean, we don’t have anything in common.

  • We have tons of things in common.

  • You know what I mean. (getting flustered)

  • Yeah, I know what you mean.  (pause)  So are you fucking someone else or just being a bitch?


I felt comfortable with her.  And that is unusual for me.  That was why I always thought that it was right; meant to be.  I never had to impress her.  In the beginning that was about all I was doing and it nearly fucked it all up.  But once I settled down (after she got rid of that other guy and we “decided” to be “exclusive”) things got better.  And I got comfortable.  I guess that made it worse in the end.  Made it hurt more when she cut me loose.  I don’t know what happened.  Maybe being comfortable made me complacent.  Maybe when I stopped trying to impress her I started taking her for granted.  Who knows?  I just never saw it coming.

Katie, a relationship

Katie, a relationship
Regret, ah yes.  My troubled Muse.  How fondly I now think of you, so long have you stayed in my house.  Regret.  Of those things done and those left undone.  Mistakes made, paths not taken.  But this was the big one.  At least, so far.  I don’t know how important she will seem down the line.  But I dwell on the past, not the future.  And so I will continue as I began.  Once it ended I did everything I could to forget her. It didn’t really work.  She may have been my Juliet, but I’ll never be her Romeo.

Katie seemed so perfect when I first met her.  Of course, I was really drunk at the time.

I never loved her.  I can see that now.  I think.  I’m only sure when she isn’t around.  Then everything gets confusing.  Jacob loved her.  Well he might have.  He at least was capable of loving someone other than himself.  Not like Dave…  Or me.  Maybe if Jacob had met her first.  Though she did have those certain “appetites” that would have just fucked Jacob instead.  And he wouldn’t have handled it as well.  But I never loved her.  I hope.  I am pretty certain; almost.  For a while I thought I might.  But that was only because I thought I loved every bitch willing to show me even the slightest attention.  Because clearly that meant they loved me.  Right?  Right.  Even the whores.  Sometimes especially the whores.  And that was Katie.  She loved us all.  She only loved herself.  Goddamn Katie.  She fucked me up.  Real solid like.

I would have to say that the courtship was the best part of our relationship.  It just went so well.  Every sly look, every come hither stare was noticed and reciprocated.  Every joke was a winner.  Every innuendo was understood and surprisingly appreciated.  And for a man who has no touch for subtlety, I was able to convey how I felt for her, how beautiful I found her without telling her.  I still told her.  She was beautiful.  Of course I told her.  But the thing was we just connected.  We fit together.  Our flaws canceled each other out.  As things progressed, I was sure it was “meant to be” or at least that this was going to be a meaningful relationship.  I guess I’m a bad judge.

Looking back on it, it was the perfect place to have my heart broken.  It was so cinematic.  It was so ridiculously out of proportion with respect to the rest of our boring relationship.  It was an epic ending to 3 weeks of passion and 6 months of nothing that special.  It did start off with a bang.  You know the whole cheating on her big man about town boyfriend deal.  I always liked that.  That she felt that I was better than that sellout candyass.  It made me feel for once that I had chosen the right path in rejecting all that common conformist bullshit.  She did break my heart.  But I don’t think I loved her.  I’m not really sure anymore.  I’ve tried to forget.  And I’ve tried to make the break up scene even more cinematic.  That’s what you do if you’re a writer.  Well, not exactly.  That’s what I do, though, as a writer.  I have to make my life interesting or nobody will want to read about it.  How very Tayama Katai of me.  It did seem like a good scene to put into a love story.  I mean there we are sitting there in Murasaki, after having just finished dinner.  The lighting is just right, the mood perfect.  I am about to tell her that I love her (and the way she looks tonight).  I smile.  She smiles back and says so matter-of-factly as to break glass and shatter the last decent elements of my soul and (DOUBT) make me question the purpose of Hope all over again,  “I’ve found someone else.  I’m sorry.”  And then she gets up and walks out of my life for the rest of ever.  I was stunned to say the least.  I mean I know guys always say not to break up with all that bullshit like ‘let’s just be friends’ or ‘it’s not me it’s you’ or some other line, but it really just stuns you when they are so blunt.  That’s when the waiter brought the check.  I tossed it back at him and order a bottle of tequila and a glass of scotch.  

Looking back on it, I should have punched her in the face.  Or raped her right then and there.  But I am a man of words and I have never been a man of action.  I didn’t even think twice about her leaving me with the bill.  Nowhere to go but up.

She was, I don’t know, 5’8” or so with long blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.  She kept her body fit and trim (likely with the manic trips to the gym that I only became aware of later on) and liked to show it off.  Her pants were always skin tight and she loved drawing attention to her perfect ass.  Her shirt was just long enough to show off her belly button ring that was perfectly accented by her tiny nose stud.  To say that she was vain would be an understatement.  She was drowning in herself.  But it was her smile that seemed to draw it all together.  She had a smile that could stop a man in his tracks and make him think that they were the only two people in the world (she still has that effect on me).  Her smile was so genuine, so sincere, so misleading.  

When I met her I was drunk and I didn’t care.  I wasn’t so drunk that I wasn’t aware of things (a few beers and some tequila shots) and when she came down into Cliché, my life came to a screeching halt.  That was my watershed moment.  Now I classify my life in terms of before and after Katie.  Katie came in with Dave’s boyfriend (they were old friends from “back home” or something) but when they got there, Bryan went to find Dave.  Leaving her alone.  I wanted to go talk to her, but wasn’t planning on it since I often make awkward first impressions – I have a tendency to fuck things up.  Also, I was drunk.  I figured I would let another guy go in – I didn’t want a pretty thing like that to be wasted (The Universe could never be so cruel as to waste a beauty like that.  Mankind could never recover from such a blow) – and that way I wouldn’t have to make an ass of myself.  
I went for another beer and all the guys in the bar went for Katie.  But for some reason, one after another, she coolly dismissed them.  Seeing that she didn’t have a drink and not wanting to be the only guy who wouldn’t be able to talk around the damn water cooler tomorrow about how this bitch turned him down (I do love my conformity).  So I walked over.  “The lady will have another … ?”  I looked her way “Extra dry martini.”  “And bring me another shot.”  What the hell, let’s do this shit – and I struck up a meaningless conversation.  I don’t really remember what we talked about – it didn’t really seem important at the time – but unlike all the other guys, I seemed to hit it off with Katie.  I didn’t get any of the normal ‘I really don’t want to talk with you just because you bought me a delicious beverage” signals that normally occurred when I talked to girls (and it wasn’t just because I was drunk either – ok, that I can’t verify, being as I was quite drunk, I might have fabricated much or all of the incident.).  I’m sure it was the normal things – what we do: jobs and otherwise, interests: what movies we like, what actors we hate, random filler – but I can’t say for sure.  Whatever I said, it must have been right because as the night faded into morning we shared a cab.

I was, of course, more than willing.  She was beautiful and any excuse to spend time with her, even something as pointless as taking a cab in the opposite direction of where I should have been headed was to be taken up without hesitation.  I don’t know what provoked her to share a cross-town cab with a guy she had just met.  It could have been the booze.  Or she saw something I don’t.  But when we got to her place, I had no expectation that I would be invited in.  The thought never even crossed my mind.  While I’m sure I was thinking how beautiful she was and how I would like to get with a girl like her, I can’t imagine that I actually considered it seriously.  She was way way out of my league.  I was likely thinking about how expensive this night was turning out to be and did I have enough money for the cab.  I did.  But not for the return trip.  So then I was wondering about where the nearest subway station was.  But when we got to her door and I was anticipating awkward silence, she casually invited me in.  I was too stunned to even consider refusing.  

Her sheets are much softer than mine.

(gratuitous sex scene)

I awoke the next morning early and slightly disoriented (waking up in strange places isn’t that unusual, waking up in strange beds slightly less usual).  Slowly looking around, I saw Katie by her mirror applying her makeup.  She turned and smiled.  I still couldn’t tell you if there is anything more beautiful in the world than Katie when she smiles.  It lights up the room.  Even now she can get my heart fluttering.  

“Hey there sweetheart, I was wondering when you would wake up.”  I smiled.  

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.  I hope you enjoyed watching me sleep.”  She laughed.  It was a beautiful lilting laugh.  Not a care in the world.

I got up and started looking for my clothes.  They were all over the place.  And I was missing a sock.

“Oh, I don’t really want my boyfriend to find out we fucked – he’s kinda possessive.  So you’ll probably want to keep this quiet”  

“Boyfriend?”  She had to be joking.  Obviously she wouldn’t bring me back to her place if she had a boyfriend.  That kind of thing just doesn’t happen.  I mean, I’m a sweet dude and all.  But that shit only happens to James Bond or in the fucking movies or shit.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you know him – Jesse Danbury?”  

“No, but I’ve heard of him.  Something of an important man about town or something.”  How does a girl like her end up dating a douche like that?  I couldn’t believe it.  That Jesse fucker was such a goddamn tool.  And I fucked his old lady.  Bastard had it fucking coming.  It was starting to look like I wasn’t going to be asked over again.

“So you’ll probably want to keep this quiet”  

“Not a problem.  I’m down with O.P.P.”  Silence.  Maybe I am not as cool as I pretend.  “Don’t worry, we don’t really run in the same circles.”  

“Right.”  She walked over to the bed, leaned over and kissed me, “So, when can I see you again?”  I guess you could say I was confused.  

“What about the boyfriend?”  

“What about him?”  Good point.  Why should I care about a fucktard like him?  Except that if he ever found out I might be in some trouble.

“Whenever you want.  I’m not really that busy most days.”  

“How about Tuesday?”  So long?  That was three days away.  How could I go three days without Katie?  It wasn’t humanly possible.  I declined to think on the fact that I had gone my entire life up until now without her.  It lessened the drama of the situation.

“Tuesday works.”  

“Excellent.”  She kissed me deeply and then turned to leave the room.  “Bye sexy, I’ll see you on Tuesday.”  I was stunned.  Sexy?  Yeah, I guess she was right.  I am a pretty fucking hot motherfucker.  She probably just forgot my name.

I would have said something, but she had already left the room.  I found the nearest station and caught the train home.  I needed a nap.

She broke up with Jesse not too long after that.  Or he broke up with her.  I never really asked for the details.  She caught him cheating on her or something.  Sleeping with his boss or his secretary or both.  I would expect anything from a jackoff like him.  Regardless, he went off with some other little thing and she came home to me.  Everything was right with The Universe.  Or so I thought.

First impressions mean a lot.  But they aren’t always right.  When I first saw Katie I thought that she was flawless.  She was the most beautiful woman in the world.  She was perfection in a box.  I ammended that view a bit over the length of our relationship.  I mean, she is beautiful.  I still think so.  But she isn’t the “most beautiful woman in the world.”  There is no such thing as the “most beautiful woman in the world.”  She has flaws.  We all do.  But I never really minded them.  I thought the relationship was going fine.  Why would I mind a few minor things?  I didn’t think it would make a big difference in the end.  I’ve been wrong before.


  • Isaac, you are so emotionally guarded, I can’t get through to you.

  • What?  What are you talking about?

  • You never let me close.  You never let me in.

  • I let you close all the time.

  • Emotionally.  You never let me close emotionally.

  • Oh great.  Not this speech again.

  • It’s important, Isaac, it’s important if we are going to have a future.  It’s important if you don’t want me to leave.

  • Katie, I’m trying to write.  Can’t this wait?

  • No.  It can’t wait.  I can’t wait.  I’ve been waiting for you for too long now…

(intermission)

  • You’re breaking up with me?

  • It’s nothing personal.

  • The fuck it isn’t.  You’re breaking up with me.  How much more personal does it get?

  • Well, you had to know this was coming.  I mean, we don’t have anything in common.

  • We have tons of things in common.

  • You know what I mean. (getting flustered)

  • Yeah, I know what you mean.  (pause)  So are you fucking someone else or just being a bitch?


I felt comfortable with her.  And that is unusual for me.  That was why I always thought that it was right; meant to be.  I never had to impress her.  In the beginning that was about all I was doing and it nearly fucked it all up.  But once I settled down (after she got rid of that other guy and we “decided” to be “exclusive”) things got better.  And I got comfortable.  I guess that made it worse in the end.  Made it hurt more when she cut me loose.  I don’t know what happened.  Maybe being comfortable made me complacent.  Maybe when I stopped trying to impress her I started taking her for granted.  Who knows?  I just never saw it coming.