- I heard what you did, saving that girl's wrist like that.  You fabulous.  Would you like more coffee?

- Only if it's on the house.

- It always is for you, after you order one.

- Girl, this coffee's making me hot.

- And beating up that nasty Persian fellow—I could tell he was a villain.

- He wasn't much.  He disappeared after I was done with him.

- That vile man.  

- Yea, I always dream like that.

- Just cause you dreamed it, honey, don't mean it didn't happen.

- Yea, if I listened to half of what people tell me about my dreams, I'd be a very depressed man.

- But you a hero.

- One time there was a lion in my living room, so I ran upstairs.

- Cause you're smart like that.

- One time I was driving an airplane, I didn't know how to land, and it turned into a burrito.

- So you help that girl get a new wrist or what?  I bet you kiss all the girls in your dreams.

- Oh, I don't like to sketch out the details of my triumphs.  But yes...sometimes they turn into a burrito.

- Look at you!  Cause, I was just thinking—my brother, see, he knows a guy, who can get those same wrists, just like new.

- Like a mannequin's, huh?  Nah, I don't go into business with real people, pragmatists especially.  The details get hazy.  Plus, I wouldn't want your brother to know I'm a dreamer.

- Well, maybe one day you can save my wrist in your dreams.

- I don't know, are you hot?

- I can get hotter.

- Well, I'll let you know... You guys got any vouchers in the back, if I complain about the service?

Use my free vouchers they gave me for pouting.  Made sure the night crew wasn't working.

Northridge

I was such a hero in my dream!  Guys, gather 'round, gather 'round, I had another dream.  And here I was today, sad before bed, because I was certain I'd never come up with new material again.  Kids, this was a using dream.  A using dream, is when you have a dream, and in your dream, you want to use drugs.  The dream took place in the city of Northridge, at the college campus.  I know the dream was situated at CSUN because I pass by there once a week and today I was thinking that CSUN has a lot of Asian kids and a lot of good ass places to eat, and how Asian girls love to eat but they stay so skinny!  

In my dream I was a student on campus, and it was 1:30AM.  I called my dealer, and when we were trying to set where to meet on campus, the call kept breaking up, and my dealer was fat.  In my dream, talking to my dealer over the phone, I was aware that he was heavyset.  The call kept breaking up and we couldn't arrange our spot, so it gave me time to walk back to my car and think it over.  I only had a week, and I knew I was about to throw it away on impulse.  I had made a lot of stupid commitments for that weekend.   I thought of perhaps getting a motel in Northridge after I scored and turning off my phone, and no one would be the wiser!  Then I started wondering about the prices of rooms in this city.  As I walked to my car,  and I guess I walked passed my dealer and his friend and he said how he didn't like giving me drugs before I had to make my presentation in class; I was thinking, What do you care, you fat dealer?  You sell me the drugs when I say.  But no transaction occured, and the drug aspect kind of disappeared from the dream.  

Next thing I knew I was standing by a plant and talking to a beautiful young woman on campus, who I think was tall, skinny, and Asian.  She was flirting with me, but kept hinting that she was anxious about meeting her boyfriend, who was going to be unpleasant, I take it, so we started holding hands.  I decided I should walk her back, because by now it was 2AM.  She continued flirting with me, which made me wonder if I should call my dealer after parting with her; then as I was walking her, we stopped so we could make out, naturally.  We made out a little, she let me grab her ass—she had a great ass—and I said bye to her as she went up the escalator to meet her boyfriend.  That's when I saw a hostile man accost her at the top of the escalator, grab her roughly by the arm, and lead her into the shadows upstairs.  Then another man accosted me, at the foot of the escalator—it felt more like a shopping mall at this point—a fat, heavyset, Persian man.  He said things to tune of, What Do You Think You're Doing?  And You Stay Away from Her!  And I said, Don't tell me what to do, you fat Persian man.  He was the best friend of the violent boyfriend.

Then the girl ran back down to me, and now she was black, holding her wrist, which her boyfriend had broken.  She came to me, and the best friend again accosted me, so me and the best friend went at it—we duked it out!  After I got a few good shots on him, he fell onto a glass coffee table behind him.  I put my arm around the girl, a victim of domestic violence—she was probably the cute black girl I saw at Popeye's this evening, who ignored me—and I led her away to the security booth some ways across campus.  Getting there, another black lady, in a red security jacket, said to me, You know, accidents happen.  I got her message loud and clear, and replied smugly, Do accidents happen?  Or do accidents happen when someone doesn't want to fill out any more necessary paperwork?  I laid it on nice and thick for her.  And in that way, I awoke, feeling like a hero.  I loved how the glass coffee table appeared at the right moment.  Today, I'll probably take my lunch in Northridge, where I expect to be received well.

You ever Google yourself at a red light?  Oh, I haven't either.

Punky slept in my bed all night, atop my wondrous bosom.  She was frightened of the wind and I gave her shelter.  I told her tales of the wicked wind, of the fireworks which She, too, was also behind; I showed the frightened dog a place under my blanket where those like her had found safe haven.  Sometimes, when she seemed comfortable, and had eased her shivers and breathing, I slowly took out a hockey stick, and started banging on the walls.  She jumped, and I comforted her, like a hero.  She knew she was safe, leaning on me, quietly asleep.  Sometimes, she would have to leap off the bed when I turned over; sometimes I mistook her for another pillow, grabbed her by the neck, and stuffed her under my head.

Still sleeping during my YMCA hours—you make my life so exciting!  My evening naps require little effort yet run a long-winded conversation with mine body and mind, leaving me with little energy for a long winded run upon the treadmill.  More, upon awakening, I decided to take my dinner at a local family diner, long regarded for its lack of a certain element.  I am wearing a bland shirt, and slippers with dark socks.  The shirt is brown, which evokes the color of homemade pot roast; and that is by no means an accident.  While walking in, I swung the currency crumpled in my hand around to signify my intention to patronize the establishment, and to make it clear I am not without monetary funds.  My environment will now view me as a patron, whereupon a server will pour me water—in a cup, not on me—and I will nod at the appropriate moment, not after he's gone, to signify I appreciate his gesture.  I will nod, staring straight ahead, not up but down, and not to any particular member of the family dining in the adjacent booth.

Once in a while, they will hear adjacent words infiltrate the tone of their booth, words to the tone of, This is some good-ass gravy.

sometimes my heart races

sometimes from just one thought

freefall

800 calories for a freakin milkshake.  No flippin' way.  Fuckin Todd Pacur Bella, I'm gonna cast a deathspell over that bozomafo.

A couple letters from the P.O. Mailbox today...

Todd Pacur Bella, from Chile, Alabama writes,

 Hi Eatkhash,

Hi!

You must be tired.  Are you tired, love?

Well a little, but it's okay because I'm learning—

You are a wise person.

Oh, I better listen up.

...And fine writer.  But mainly a wise person.  I love how you can talk openly about your mistakes, then go ahead and make the same mistake again monthly.  I'm really looking forward to what you have to say this—

Opps, accidentally dropped this one in the shredder.  No more letters for today.

now I'm angry...grr!

Chuck here from Chuck Here Loaning You Money.  Listen, do you need money?  I can help you.  It's no problem.  I got it.  I'll loan it out to you.  I don't care what it's for.  You come to me, and I'll give it to you.  It's that simple, and you do what you gotta do.  All you need to do is, return it to me at a date and time I set, with my end on top.  It's that simple.  My end always has to be on top.   But you pay that back.  You pay it...or I'll break off your bones.  You gotta pay.  Look, I want to help you.  You don't play with me, and I don't play with you.  You need money to make a problem go away?  You come to me.  But don't get smart about it, or I'll hurt your feelings.  Yea, I've been in the can.  What of it?  Where do you think I got this attitude?  I get things done, and I can make your problem go away.  But don't you duck me—Hey, you don't duck me.  I'll break off your bill and hand it to you.  Next time I'll hand it to your mother—What do you mean it doesn't make sense?  Of course it makes sense.  You, I'll deal with you later.  Listen, you call me.  But don't make me have to come looking for you, or it won't be good for you.  You can't duck nobody in the can.  I have a lot of memories in my dreams.  I'm getting old.  Listen, you call me.  That's 866-213, 5...467.  Extension 221.  That's 866-213—What do you mean?  I'm not done with my script, you cocks—

You know what?  Fuck this shit!  I don't even drink coffee.  I saw the flavors and they were all, Coffee, Coffee Dark, Coffee Nut, Coffee Mountain Dirt Roast.  Then I saw one that said, Donut Shop.

Oh, I smiled—how I smiled.  The packaging was bright, and color...and feelings...it made me think of white coffee...

But, nevermind that now.  You know what it tasted like?  Fluff off, it was coffee!  I was hoping it tasted like donut shop.

I wrote most of this out on paper first to practice the habit for theboring kind of writing I must start doing

I approached a young man sitting slumped down in the dirt of the sidewalk.  He had blonde hair but too much dirt for girls to notice, that brilliance of color.  I asked him if he was hungry and that I had a lunch.  I spoke without hearing his response.  He looked at me, more peaceful than jovial, and said, Okay, and that was my signal to go in and make my play—I relapsed by the way.  He made out his hands in a manner I could immediately recognize; often in the schoolyard, my friends, good chums we were, would let me see a key chain they had stumbled upon and took to liking, or a lanyard they recently completed.  I handed it—let's not beat around the bush, we'll clarify that I simply handed the brown paper bag over to the fellow.  Shame, really—women are often attracted to that sort of hair.  After it was no longer in my hands, I walked away, comfortable with the purposefulness of our encounter—I didn't really need to dwell any further now, would I?  

After I walked but a few feet I heard the sound of what could quite possibly be him tossing the bag in a contemptuous manner away from his feet.  Before I turned around, I took a moment to appreciate noting he seemed more peaceful than jovial; he must have, then—and I take no pride in such astute awareness of my surroundings—he must have thrown the brown paper bag—interestingly, if you'll look up you'll find it's a variation of this bus web address...fascinating really—he tossed it with more disgust than contempt.  Obviously, his mental state was in a quandary, battle-worn from conflicts with his primal instincts.  He was troubled; I knew better from years of experience honing scorn and petulance at my grandmother's kitchen table.  Of course, you're probably more familiar with differentiating from a dinner table.  Our cultures sometimes vary little other than on some slight gesticulations; it could very well be a dinner table, and you can have your meal, or you can fill it up with laptops and screens and get on with it!  All the cables, the panic and feverish anticipation.  

Anyway, I walked back past him, hoping he wouldn't notice me, but did so in a path I imagined was the arc his meal flew.  I could say I was not troubled—Oh, look to your right, he's at it again, this one, the persistence on that bugger—I respected his decision, but caught myself perplexed on what to do about the meal—and it's interesting really, how the brown paper bag has taken on its name... What do you think, should I have taken it back?  You?  Oh, you would have grabbed it, would you?  By all accounts, that was his lunch now...and when I realized I was perplexed before slightly perplexed, or even musing for bloody sakes, I stepped away and spotted another tent.  In the schoolyard, when someone had a ball, we'd get on with it and start a kickball match.   Naturally, we had to bide by the bell—and that's an inverted nod to your Saved by the Bell.  Clearly, I have made an allusion.  Yes, I try to make my tours eventful here and now.  We'd have to go in, and the team behind in points, as we like to refer to them, would bemoan the unfruitfulness of their tactical approach.  But usually, we know, my boys, at least; for example, when it was Melville's turn to kick the ball, Melville would kick the ball.  Before you knew it, that ball had air it prior hadn't used.  We were a good group.  A fat little boy, he was, Melville, but brave; he could kick that ball... The girls seemed to like him... 

And this fellow over here had a tent.  I would go in like a wandering body or inquiring about some issue prevalent in these parts; he would respectfully entertain my presence, maintaining a dignified air about him, and a watchful eye...or ear, for that matter.  As I made my journey,  I saw a man about the street I hadn't hitherto noticed.  No, it is, it is.  Much maligned in the States, is it?  Maybe it could make a comeback as slang; yes, you can take it back overseas and spread the word.  Is that the proper path, organically, for a word from the streets?  Right, I saw him as I was looking ahead to his stead, and so I assumed this man was the homeowner, by all accounts, due to his proximity to the tent, and the general comfort about him in his space showed he could just hug his tent and pick it up.  I was a bit disappointed I couldn't call on him in the manner I envisioned.  

Still, I was stuck on the fiercely unique gentlemen across the street, the distinct air of disharmony left in the wake of our exchange.  Surely, I was perplexed at this point.  I took a moment to take in the full scope of the pesky sensation, an irritation, essentially, is what it boiled down to.  When the homeowner asked me again if I had meant to bring him food, I realized he must have been standing there for some time to my ignorance.  I made my move and felt when the bag had stuffed his chest whilst still musing upon that peculiar bloke.  

- What's his story, over there?  Do you know the fellow?

- Him?  Nah, I don't know him.

- He hasn't taken to his lunch, it seems: which, oddly enough, he had accepted.

- I haven't seen him around.  He new?  Hey, he new?  I haven't seen him around.

- Not hitherto?

- Nah, not hitherto.  He doesn't want his food?

- Quite an existential conundrum here, I suspect we're witnessing.  

- He doesn't want his food?

- It seems that way—I'm frankly embarrassed to admit.

- He'll eat it.  Someone will.  It's a good thing you're doing.  There was more people here last week, but they've started clearing out.

- Oh, that's encouraging to hear.  Fabulous, people are finding their way.  

- No, from this area—they're clearing the people out.

- Oh, where will they go?

- Down the street to the park, I guess.

- At least you got the ocean.

What's that?  Oh, I was just musing on my day.  I've found that if I could talk about being of service to fill up some space time in this dreadful bus, it can work with my ego and give me incentive...well, until the magistrate sees it fit I've done my part.  At this point, I'd like to thank you and the bus driver's tip is customary to leave 50%.  What's that?  Oh, yes, thanks for reminding me; here are your vouchers.

I cant stand these bideo teels playing in me

it's hers if she wants to give it

this is our home and we are safe

you can breathe

it's hers if she wants to give it

this is our home

and you can breathe

this is our home

and you can breathe

this is our home

and you can breathe

can't show someone you're breathing

they have to breathe

this is our home

this is our home

and you can breathe

After I smoked

I had to accept that I put something into

my body and brain

as I layed in bed

wondering what's happening

the bed is soft and won't hurt me if i stay

I acted as if I were sick.  I ate small tomato soup.  I put cold chicken in the soup.  I didn't care about the bread.  I ate bread.  I looked at the chicken's body in its state.  I ate pieces of the chicken's body.  I wondered if plants, fruits and vegtables grew for a reason.  I didn't know.  I wondered about animals being born, and seeds... I thought about fish, their lives in the ocean.  I was confused and I knew I didn't know.  I didn't want to dwell on corporations.  I did not feel good eating the chicken; if it tasted good I don't want to dwell.  I saw my dogs' beef jerky.  I passed by my own bag of beef jerky.  I thought if God had given us the ability of self-analysis for a reason.  I remembered "follow your heart."  I thought of smoking.  And I mused that's not what my heart wants.  I walked and went into my bed.  I am in the dark in my bed.  My dog I can hear breathing.  I just want to get through today.  I don't want to think about what I'll think about tomorrow.  I just want to sleep. I don't know if I will smoke, I don't know if I will and come back—i don't want to dwell...I don't want to get stuck on it 

bride at the alter

here comes the groom

That scene in the Sopranos where Vito's chomping away at his baby carrots, his foot is racing, when he realizes Tony's about to wake from his coma and he still hasn't given Carmela the 200k.  

Fuck Len and Larry.  400 calories for 16g of protein?  I got M&Ms Birthday Cake, and Muscle Milk 100...and a cigarette! 

- Ugh!

 I need sugar to sleep.

Drove around half an hour for 100 calories.  God always puts people in my life.

dvd froze

hand on face

Yelled at a black guy today.

- (shaking his head, hand on face) Oh, Jesus...Jesus...just Jesus—What were you thinking!

And while I was yelling, I decided I was prepared to fight him.

- Did you inform him of such?

No, that would have sounded pretty gay.  None of my senetences made any sense.

- Made no sentences, huh?

Not really.

- That ain't classy.

But still it was colorful.

- Pales in comparison.

I think I told him to, "Fuck the shut up."  The rest of my words, I stuttered, till I could figure out another word—

- A colorful one, no doubt.

...Just made no sentences.

- What happened?

He couldn't get out of the parking lot.

- So you killed him!  That was your chance to take him out, yes it was.  Yes it was!  You took him out because he was black in the parking lot!  Practicing my lawyering.  What do you think?

I was prepared to hate everyone when I got to that street, because of the Wells Fargo parking lot traffic; everyone blocks traffic so they can get in.  

- No consideration when you're after yours.  

You can't get into any other business on the street without a good slapping your face cause your nose won't stop itching.

- So you killed him because he was a black man getting his money.  He has a job, he's getting his—and you can't stand that!  A black man getting his!

He wasn't getting his; he was getting coffee.  He probably bought one of my cookies, too.

- Then why'd you kill him?

I didn't kill him!  

- He was a black customer!

Look, you ingrate, I didn't kill him.  He could've just as likely opted for another product, healthier, one with more protein.

- He wasn't a customer—Say no more. It's all becoming clear to me.  He wasn't parting with his hard-earned money.  He eats salads and you resent that.

No, he wasn't even in the bank parking lot.  That's not an issue anymore.  He was in the lot I was going into.

- Then why did you yell at the black man doing his thing?

I don't know!  I was angry at the people who wouldn't let me back out when they drove by.

- They were probably going to the bank.  They were probably white.

Shit, they were probably Armenian.  I was already anticipating impatience and animosity turning into the street.  I snapped at him when he asked me a second time to back out while the cars wouldn't let me back out.

- Fuckin Armenians.

Those cars were domestic.  

- Hiding behind the Constitution!  What did he say exactly, the black? Was his language rhythmic?

You mean did he rap at me?  

- Elliot, you smug cocksucker.

He just responded that he wasn't yelling at me like I was yelling at him when he asked me to move back.

- And what did you do?

I rolled up my window and covered up my fuckin face.

- And what did you learn from his blackness?

- That he was also gay.

Kit Kat White was made by the Devil.

this one's a winner

they got it right

i'm finally starting to like King of Limbs.

shin splintz

I'm injured.  My soul is injured.  The bone of the soul of my shin.  I'm a jock.  I have a sports injury.  Tell everyone, all the attractive ones.  I'm a jock now.  I have the jacket. Tell your neighbor; tell her mom.  It's horrible, I can't run.  I have flat feet, flat as the earth is round.  Flat!  Don't tell anyone.  I keep dreaming about drugs.  I need to run.  I tried the biking machine, it's right behind the stairmaster, so I kept having to pray when I caught myself; and when I turn my head it's the ellipsis machine, and that looks like sex, too.  I need to run, in the corner I liked to run, off to myself, where I can't look around, and they can stare at my ass.  At least I can still go swimming, I think.  But my leg! It's a hurt's nest.  Tell the doctor!  Tell his son. Tell him, I'm a jock.  Tell the hot ones.  I have the jacket.  We hate Valley High.

"

- I can help you; I'm a doctor.

- You're a doctor?

- Man, I said I'm a doctor!"

When two men fight physically, one loses, and it doesn't matter anymore his anger, drive or will, because his head is getting bashed in, and his brain can't respond anymore, and his eyes still stare ahead

- Nobody talk to me—I ate too much today.

- You're such a girl.

bre

Her presence was the hole in my heart.

Her eyes dark like beads, they would ignore me.

she joked cynically to others, shielded her spirit, i was the air around her

If she looked askance, but for a moment she would fill my world.

I wondered if she would look at me when my face was down,

and see me

That was enough for my thoughts,

my head busy on a soft white pillow,

warm, turning my face into another

warm,

Bucket List #47

47.  To watch again that episode of Full House, where Uncle Jesse's twin brother from Greece visits and turns out to be no-good. 

"I did try to work.  Very, very hard.  Worst day of my life."

Let me tell you something babe, it's nerve medicine to work with this one guy I have to see once a week.  He's nerve medicine!  He gives me neurosis.  Sometimes I'll say it's not worth the six bucks to see him, my love.

And then this one guy, he speaks Western dialect, and I don't understand a word he's saying, my heart!  It's like making out Eastern dialect news.  So once a week when he reverts to one of his tangents, I just nod along and laugh and smile with him, and nod some more...a little more nodding, then when I notice his laugh growing, I raise mine too, but I slightly wonder if he's fucking with me.

well they can't all be winners

I don't know why I look down upon people for doing some of the same shit I do when I'm not doing it.  Such bullshit.  Upon sounds so pretentious. 

- Vroom-vroom.

I mean, everything I say I just contradict.

- Uh-oh.

Why do anything?

- I know where this—

Just rolling a boulder to watch it fall back.

- Don't do it, man.

Why should I have to use "Upon?"

- Nope.

What's it matter anyway, she's probably getting gifted right now.

- Don't do it.

And I'm just going to chew on it.

- Stop.

I should...I should—Well, I might as well just get drunk.

- You, you sly dog, you.  I know your tricks.  I knew where this was headed.

Eh.  I'm mad at my body and my brain.  Instead of getting skinnier, I look like freakin Jackie Jr.  I caused a scene at a restaurant.  It wasn't cute.  I wasn't witty.  I was stuttering and shaking cause I was so angry and angry at myself for causing a scene, and then I wasn't even witty.  And then they gave me a couple vouchers with my refund, and it was even more humiliating.  I told them, dressing on the side!  I saided it loud and clear, and I heard them say it three times to Roscoe and Bosco in the back before I got my fuckin salad and soup, and there was dressing in my shitty salad, and I had regretted my stupid order like ten minutes earlier—oh they were late with the order and were closing, I sat there thinking about South America and internatinal travel and the weather—but what really grills me, the two girls in the front hadn't laughed at my jokes when I was ordering, and then when I asked about the protein in the various soups, they gave me ugly looks, like how the hell should I know?  I just work here.

I can't believe they didn't laugh at my jokes.  Probably thinking about their stupid boyfriends.  Probably had indigestion.  From now on, I'm not wasting my jokes on people.  I can't even remember what they were.

Maybe they weren't even jokes.  They didn't give me the attention I felt I deseved.  Seems clear enough.

Maybe I don't even have any good jokes.

- Hey, easy now...

You're right.  It's them!  It's always them. Them who were thinking about going home.

I had a really bad playtime nightmare the other night.  I woke up a few times but it was still going. My mind's eating me up while I sleep.  I gotta do more when I'm awake.

Fathers have been taking their sons out more.  They don the attire of their favorite team, the Redskins.  Some just wear a t-shirt of their beloved, or a baseball cap with the logo.

Let's go check up on Alan before we go home.  Do you want to come with me?  Okay, let's go.  I'll put you in between my legs.

..I hope he's not masterbating.  We better knock first.

Sorry belly, we're going to put another one into you.

I had a dream of all the goals Lewandowski scored for Poland against Scotland yesterday—I didn't even see the game.  In one of the plays, he made an assist for Douglas Costa—and Costa's Brazilian, I think.

Then, in the next shot in my reel, Lewandowski, that smug bastard, he was seated comfortably in an airplane, and he gave me smirk!  He was eating airline food.

I miss airline food.  I don't know why it has such a bad reputation.  I've never had bad airline food.  The resullts have always been in the deliciousness terroritory.  I want to be on an airplane, most likely going somewhere.  I've been having dreams of airliners crashing recently, watching them fall from the sky into a city; sometimes a bad take off, and the bird doesn't get far.  Sometimes I think about my dreams and wonder if maybe I shouldn't be telling people because I have a slight fear some people suspect I'm a serial killer.  I want to be on a plane though, definitely going somewhere.  I know how dogs feel when they've been tricked.  I have a slight fear of heights.  I'd have to take a bunch of xanax, a parking lot full.  I panic during turbulance.  Everybody grope somebody while you can—we're going down.

White guy and black guy in jovial conversation while redlight traffic watches:

W: Look at all these cars...I'm going to get some points for this, I'm sure of it.  

B: This cracker's trying to get some points off me.

I don't much feel like rereading my stuff to stroke my ego tonight.  Hmm, let's go to the P.O. mailbag, see if we can't much cheer me up.

Rupert Montgomery from The Hamptons  writes...

Dear EatKhash,

I am a very wealthy man.  I live in a big mansion.  My options include more than just getting up.  My wife and I enjoy visiting your blog; we often stay for over 15 minutes.  We have a private sea in our backyard, that is a pool for giants.  They pay big bucks to remain inconspicuous.  My wife really likes your stuff.  She is good looking.  But you can't see a picture of her, you dirty bastard.  

P.S. Now that you know my name, I imagine you may find yourself sniffing around social media when the time comes.  Shall we go ahead and block you if we notice you about?  

Thank You, Rupert.  Obviously, I can only speak of today.

Zankou Seduction

- How much do you pay your workers?

- One dollar.

- (laughs) I heard you pay them more than you make.

- Oh, where did you hear that?

- I've heard around.  Your manager especially...

Dear God,

I heard someone say the other night—Hold on, Mom!—something that I have to keep repeating to hopefully instill in myself.  He said—at least I think that's what he meant—when he knows what your Will is—he can feel it, I guess—it doesn't matter how he feels, he just does it.  If he's thinking about the weather, he doesn't let himself check the Weather channel.  That hel...helps me—No, I'm just gonna get a Whopper!—because I can't help thinking about the weather.  Sorry.  I feel good.  I'm scared.  I'm worried.  Bayern looks scary this year.  I mean, you saw what they did to Dortmund.  That Lewandowski's a ravaging beast.  He looks like her type, too; you know how she likes that fair hair and light eyes.  Now he lives in the same country as her, and what with all those goals behind him...I don't know...I worry.  I turn to you, as I always have to, because you're the vulnerability in all of us, the beauty of our mistakes, the hole in intoxicating anger.  I don't know... Maybe he's a bubblehead and will just go on and on about his goals all day if they run into each other during some...some Oktoberfest shindig.  I mean, she's smart, but that might make it all the more advantageous to her.  What if they have a beer together?  I mean, what's he doing drinking—he's in training!  Someone needs to tell the coach. Oh, let me find solace in the things I cannot control.  Let him accidentally fart in the room, and everyone fulfill their purist dreams.  Maybe he'll just squabble with the hotel staff the entire day.  Alonso wouldn't do that to me, his heart's still in Madrid, I know; Gotze's better looking than she is and Muller's kind of ugly.  I'm not too wary of them—I mean, look at my height.  Forget about it.  I'll win that one.   What am I saying, Oh Masterful One—the crown!  The crown is what's important.  I know our boys can do it; we've started incorporating Bale in the middle and CR7 more up front.  Bless their hams, ligaments, and knees, 1-2-3.  Maybe a plane out of Munich can take a bump, and some of them can take a knock.  I don't want to hurt them, love; just injure them, just for awhile...I mean, they have kids and mistresses, it's their life.  What if that taints our triumph, right?  I know...but I thought of that.  Maybe a few separate incidents, like a jilted lover and Costa gets clubbed in the knee; Neuer, the victim of a motor vehicle by some unsuspecting immigrant driver.  It's a big country, it'll give the papers something to discuss after the backlash ends in bigotry.  They can examine themselves after Bayern bows out and goes back to celebrating another domestic double.  Sorry, I couldn't resist.  I know, I need to examine myself firstly.  Surely, it comes from fear, surely my ego's the real monster.  Allow me the courage to call out my resentments, and identify my defects and shortcomings clearly.  Thank you, for today, and stay with me always.  Okay, ready?  4,7,11,21,23.  It's the same as my roulette numbers again, but the Mega Number is 4. 

7 miles (Garlic Seabass)

It's hard to estimate, but I reckon, I can provide an accurate figure, of the amount of M&Ms I swallowed when we returned from our hike.  Four to seven, six to eight—somewhere in that sequence of numbers, a lone figure surely lies.  These chocolate candies covered a peanut; some of them were black.  What's more, there were two lone pieces of Mini-Hershey's, who were friends.  I later returned, and ate three more of their friends from their inner circle.  In between that, I had Thai, in Thai Town, with my own good friends.  I forgot to use the sauces.  Let me say that again—there were four—I forgot to use the sauces.  Let me repeat, with some hesitancy: when we were presented our plates full of dish, I rushed to the main course of action.  Let me be more clear: I'm wont to eat alone.  I panicked.  These guys aren't my parents; I kept fighting the urge to tell them to cut up my portions.  Them, big as construction laborers—What if there's nothing left while I'm forklifting the rice to my plate?  The white grains, the meat and potatoes of the entrée I envisioned designing.  The balancing, the panic, the blankets of grain spilling over the plate like peasants off the pier who couldn't reach the ship; I put my hands on my head and started bawling.  Tears crashed upon the glass, like aristocrats splashing into the water.  One elbow slid off the corner of the table. Underneath the glass, the white tablecloth swung dull and limp.  I looked up: that had given them more time to eat all the food!  No one tried to comfort me so that I would push their hand away and turn my face. I kept screaming at them, screaming—I was screaming and pleading, Stop it!  Stop it!  There's going to be none left for me! and they kept going, near done nearing all the portions I was to be eating.  So I looked around, all their heads were down; their eyes dead in ecstasy, their fat mouths full of food, flavor—and what's this?  They're shoveling in more food!  So I slapped my face, slapped my chest, clotheslined the ref, and slapped my face again and said, Wipe that trout right off your face! and jumped into that sweet, blistering rat race.  I was full before I even knew it, sat back and complimented the cushion on my chair—my lounging chair, as it were.  I couldn't wait to have my puff pastry stick, so I threw in some cash on the table when we split the square check, and told them, That's nearly all of it.  When they pursued me at the door for the tip, I said, Lay off me, I'm a child of divorce.

missing the game

hiking knowledge

- What, freefall?  That's not the way to go.    You have all this time to think.

- Oh shit, you're right.  I might regret it.

- Before you even hit the ground.  You should probably drown.

- You think so?

- Oh yea.

- Well, maybe if the fall doesn't kill me.

- It's good to have a cushion.

I gotta think of a way to stop being friends with this guy

I'm supposed to go hiking.

It's 7am.

I told my bud to call me to wake me up.

He did.

I hate him and the world.

When I opened my eyes

and heard the unlazy bastard's voice

and I realized what lies ahead—

physical activity—I decided,

that I hate him and the world.

Then when I remembered,

that three hours earlier,

I was standing upright heroically, 

sleepeatin' a box of buttery cookies,

and that my nogood double 

sabotaged me again, I decided,

that I hate him and the world.

I wish for calamities,

I wish for rain,

and the drive there, 

to take us out,

off with our heads!

so that I may come back to bed.

Commentary: good memiors, good, not great,

 

Self seeking photo session.  Not many birds around this time.  Ducks, pigeons, whatever they're called.  Some different types I've seen around here before.  I'm feeding them my expired cookie crumbs.  Is that bad?  This one time I was kneeling down trying to look romantic, my knees hurt and I was worried about my shoes, and I was admiring a different type, real tall with long legs...then I realized, these guys are standing there eating all the fish they see in the water.  I had this pulled pork sandwich the other day, just divine.  It was just bread stuffed with pig.  Almost looked vulgar.

I was thinking about the first time you walked me home.

Maybe there's nothing in my box because of the trees

i hadn't thought about the trees

Now that I don't check my stats, my days pretty much free up.  I can get in a four mile hike, after I drive real real far away

to some epic mountain.

I can do archery in the afternoons,

Now that I don't check my stats.

And I,

I, who checked his stats,

have no morning ritual,

sit there being late for work for nothing.

Time is moving;

Space is empty,

now that I don't check my stats.

Now that I don't check my stats!

My morning cigarette

devoid of feeling,

like a patient in a white-walled room:

Take your Lithium,

or go to work, you loon.

Now that I don't check my stats,

I only awake eight times a night

to take a piss, to have it all—

But not, not to check my views.