cable

There’s so much poetry on myspace I thought I’d give it a try:

Today was bad

Aching to my very core

Pain so deep it makes me question

Can I go on?

Is it worth it?

Struggling to get through

Life is hurt

Gasping in torture

Today was bad

Tomorrow will be worse…

That’s the last time I wait a year in between sets of sit ups.

You know, the depth of my own talent frightens me. Oh yeah, how come my life has to come to an end for five minutes just because I hesitated on the Pay Per View channel? For some questions, there are no answers. God Damn cable.

finger

Man, the females were all over me today. What can I say? I’ve just got that special something… blood that is. I made sure to coat myself with repellent, spraying my legs, arms, face, back, clothes, and even my helmet. It worked for about three minutes. The horse flies would land, hesitate for a second, then take off. But for the black flies, it was like I rang the fucking dinner bell. DEET my ass. I’ve been trying to get back into shape. But instead of just chugging along on my bike, continuously feeling seconds away from a stroke, I’ve been stopping to eschew the scenery. The sunset, a pair of fox kits frolicking, a deer poking his head above the high grass, an osprey perched next to its nest platform, in short: riding like a tourist. It’s been good for my soul, but bad for my pot belly. And it attracts clouds of bugs. When I was into photography, I would spend hours and hours laying out in some salt marsh to get one half way decent shot of a fiddler crab. The biting flies didn’t bother me. I‘d just tune them out. Today, I couldn’t take it. Do I have no metal toughness left? When did I become such a pussy? Fuck that. I can take it. Tomorrow I’m getting up early and head out to… OOWEEE!!! I got a finger cramp. Gotta stop.

wipe

For me, breakups are usually hard to get over. But I’ve used a few tricks over the years to get by. At first, I use to imagine a recent ex as a mud wrestler. But the images of a semi-clad ex writhing around in the muck, with a similarly topless opponent were always ultimately counter productive. As the years past and the exes piled up, I would picture her living in some trailer trash hell, cigarette in mouth, curlers in hair, screaming baby in one hand, iron in the other, with a hugely fore headed snot faced troll pulling at her apron string as her pot bellied disabled carpenter husband yells at her to get him a beer as he sits on the couch in his stained wife-beater, watching his Hee-Haw collector’s edition DVD. Unfortunately for me, every ex I’ve ever run into as been relatively happy and successful. Damn. So now, I’ve invented the penultimate tool of breakup recovery. As soon as it’s over, I run out and have my ex’s face printed on a roll of toilet paper. It’s amazing how the bad memories just wipe away. Now this all may all sound very low class to you but I promise: I always wipe with my pinky out!

A more positive use of creative printing, I wear boxer-brief underwear with Jennifer Aniston’s face printed on the front. Right before I go to bed, I turn them inside out. “Sweet dreams my pet”.

cinderblock

My life thus far has been a never ending battle with my feeble brain. It works in spurts and sputters, trains of thought derailing after about thirty seconds, or dead ending in darkened tunnels. My past week, in which I waged a war of will against a mighty opponent, engaging in an epic struggle between man and beast for ultimate dominance, proves my point. The opponent: my friend’s cat. The damn thing ran out through a broken screen door the first night of house sitting. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. But this cat replaced one that was run over. So I had to try to get it in. What ensued over the following week ranged from a few hours of nightly pursuit, attempted lures, leaving food out, not leaving food out, and once the mocking tinkle of its collar bells were no longer heard, two night of driving around the neighborhood and a visit to the pound. All I could think about was how I was going to tell my friend’s little girl after her return from the magical world of Disney, that maybe pet ownership was not for her, as this was her second dead cat in two years. Not an appealing prospect. So after about a day and a half of no signs of life, at 2:30 AM the little shit showed up on the front porch. I opened the door, and he walked right in. Now I make no claims of any kind of psychic ability, but as that cat strode past me he thought: “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?” Images sped through my mind, like: his bloodied limp body hanging in the foyer greeting my friend’s family on their return. Or, tying a cinderblock to his tail and throwing him into the canal. But then I thought about the little girl. Ok cat. You win. Yours is the superior intellect. Thanks a lot brain