Friday, September 30, 2011

The Murderous Implications of Being

The mere fact that we exist means in one form or another; something else does not. The moment you were conceived and the little egg in your momma’s belly started to grow, millions of other possibilities ceased to be and millions of others started.  All those sperm, vying to be King Fertilizer, and yet the ones that don’t make it die off and cease to be. So by our very creation we’ve murdered millions of possibilities.

When we are born we immediately become consumers. (Not that we weren’t consumers in the womb, but that was more mom anyway) Our immediate lust for milk, food or blankets results in the death of countless animals and plant life. Who knows how many young Indian or Chinese people were accidentally chopped up into little chunks when they fell into the weaving machine in their third rate factory that makes the blankets we were swaddled in at the hospital.

As we start to grow we learn the fine art of killing things with our own hands. The first dead bug, the first magnifying glass on the ant hill, the first cat in a sack in the river (C’mon, not really, just let go of your indignation for a second. Besides, you’re the murderer here). Soon we have a mastery over our domain and we consider ourselves the center of the universe and all that do not bow to our demands will be smote.

Of course then we go to school or maybe church and learn that we’re not the inventor of the cheese sandwich and that there’s someone who demands we bend to their will. We are of course already skilled at vending death with our every step so the end of our imaginary dominance of the world passes away with little notice.  We also hardly notice the kids that maybe didn’t make it into school because we got in before they did and due to classroom size restrictions they will not be able to attend, thus putting their lives on a collision course to oblivion. Not that you meant to do it, but you might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.

That person you saw recently who fed you the classic “all things happen for a reason” line (and you know you saw them recently, everybody knows that douchebag.) I’m so tired of that guy. Well, they’re wrong, everything happens because you like to murder things. Hopefully not intentionally, but you do enjoy it. Be it the strangulation of someone else’s dreams or the burial of someone’s ideals, it was the victim of a brutal crime. Every moment is a crime scene of murdered potential or vision.

We can’t help ourselves, as I said we start this murderous rampage the moment daddy didn’t put the rubber on. And don’t get me started on all his murdering. My goodness, with all the masturbation over the course of his lifetime, he’s worse than Hitler, Stalin and Kenny G put together. It’s our nature to either stop and smell the roses or trample them under our Doc Martens.

I think the Highlander was right, there can be only one. Now get back to murdering things.  

(Is hang-over writing the best writing? No. I murdered this)

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Silent Assault

Hank thought it was odd to see a mime at the local convenience store. He’d been going to the same little quick stop place for 10 years to get his morning coffee and newspaper before heading to work. The mime was doing that “walking against the wind” thing and “guy tugging on an imaginary rope” gag. The mime was pretty good; obviously he’d been training for a while at some liberal arts college.

Hank made his was up to the train platform and walked toward his usual place. He liked to stand near the fence where the front train car often stopped. Plus in the winter time the area provided a little shelter from the howling winds. As he moved to his usual spot he saw another mime. This mime was across the train tracks and he was climbing an imaginary ladder to nowhere. Some other commuters were watching and seemed to be enjoying this little display of imaginary motion. Hank considered the whole thing a little strange but it was the big city and these things sometimes happened.

The train screeched into the station stop and Hank and the other commuters boarded. The train was unusually crowded this morning and he could barely find a seat. Hank sat next to an older man who grumbled a bit as Hank tried to get comfortable and open his paper. Hank always wondered why people took it so personally when someone sat next to them. I mean, if they wanted to sit in a single seat they should go upstairs where there are single seats available and not try to hog a two seater. It was called sharing. Hank opened his paper and started to scan the headlines. It was the usual murder and death and poverty.

The silence was what caught Hank’s attention. Usually there’s a little noise on the train car, people on their cell phones or talking to each other, but this morning there was nothing. It was like a tomb on the train car. Hank looked up from his paper and glanced at the seats across from him. More mimes. In fact there were four mimes sitting silently across from each other; all in their black and white striped shirts, black suspenders and black tight pants. They all had their faces painted in the customary white-face with the little black triangles under their eyes. Hank got the shivers.

He leaned over and looked back down the train car and mixed in among the regular commuters were six more mimes. Hank looked at a young woman he see’s regularly on the train and she just shrugged at him. Clearly she thought it was odd there were so many mimes about as well. Hank looked back to his newspaper and flipped through the pages to see if there were any articles about some mime fest or something going on downtown. He didn’t see anything, but then again, that wasn’t all that unusual.

The train pulled into the next station and the doors opened. Hank looked out the window over the grumbling old man and saw at least eight more mimes. They were all getting on his train. Hank started to feel tightness in his chest. The mimes boarded the train and stood in the aisle, silent and stoic. Hank then realized he hadn’t seen a conductor come through the train car to collect tickets. The tightness in his chest got worse.

Hank looked back over his shoulder to the young woman but he couldn’t see her, too many mimes were now blocking his view. There were at least 18 now riding his car and he wondered how many more there might be. He had to find out what was going on. He looked at the mime nearest him.

“Excuse me, but what with all the mimes?”

The mime looked at Hank and made the “my lips are locked and I just threw away the key” motion. Hank didn’t know if that was a real answer and he didn’t like the way the mime had looked at him.

“I know you’re all doing some kind of bit but really, what’s with all the mimes? Is there a conference of mimes or something?”

The mime gestured like he couldn’t hear Hank and then looked away from him.
Now Hank felt panic starting to enter his mind.

The train conductor usually made an announcement as they pulled into the downtown station, but this morning there was silence. The train pulled in as usual and came to a stop. The train doors opened and all the mimes came streaming out of the cars. Hank stood up and tried to move his way through the throngs of mimes. The whole damn station was filled with them. Hank tried to find some of the other regular commuters but they were obscured in a sea of black and white striped shirts and guys pretend roller skating.

Hank was caught in a wave of the wave of mimes as they moved through the train station. He couldn’t see any single regular person anywhere. Mimes, mimes, mimes, were everywhere. Hank started to run through the silent crowd, even pushing some of those quiet bastards out of his way. He pushed his way down the escalator and ran out through the train station doors onto the street.

No horns honking, no sirens wailing in the distance, nothing, silence. The street was filled with mimes. Hank grabbed a white faced woman and shook her by the shoulders.

“What the hell is going on”, he yelled at her.

She looked at him and slowly lifted a white gloved hand to her throat and made the “slitting your throat from ear to ear”, gesture.

Hank let her shoulders go and stumbled backwards into the flailing arms of mimes trapped in glass boxes. He put his hands to his head and screamed; his voice the only sound echoing through the streets. He struggled to get to his feet but an imaginary rope had been thrown around his waist and he couldn’t seem to get away. The mimes enveloped Hank and his screams slowly faded into the silence.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011


I think I’m addicted to a children’s anime show. I have been watching Dragon Ball Z Kai and I can’t get enough. It’s incredibly silly but I find myself singing the theme song in my head at odd moments and I oft discover that I really need to find out what happens to Goku and his friends. It’s so silly.

I think I need a hobby. Or at least a girlfriend. A hobby girlfriend. Yes. Clearly I need someone in my life to keep me on the level and not be all consumed with the going ons between Goku, Vegeta and the other Sayians. I’m ridiculous.

It is a good cartoon though. Oh man, what am I saying, it’s a cartoon and I’m nearly 35 years old. I do need to know what happens though. I think those crafty Japanese made it like a drug and now I’m addicted. Hmm….

Okay, I’ve got two meetings today and I don’t have any more time to devote to this today. I’ll hopefully have more tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

A Pain

“Boy it’s gloomy out”, said Roger as he rubbed the long scar across his face.

Larry looked up from the wheelbarrow and up at the dark gray sky and shrugged.

“So what. It’s gray, big deal”, said Larry and he forced his heavy load along the rocky road.

“I’m just saying. I mean, it’s pretty gray for so early in the day. That’s all”, said Roger.

Roger looked back down at the pile of rocks he’d been banging away at with the sledgehammer. The same pile he’d been swinging at for the last 16 years. The pile seemed to be the same height it was when he first arrived at Stone Briar Prison. It didn’t seem to matter how hard he swung the hammer or what part of the pile he hit, the rocks just stayed unbroken.

In four years Roger would be released from prison having served his twenty years. He was lucky not to receive the death penalty for his part in the botched Chamberlain kidnapping.  It was all that idiot Sonny’s idea. He figured they’d snag the little brat, get some ransom and be on easy street for the rest of their days.

Normally it wouldn’t have been something Roger would have been involved with, but he’d lost his teaching job when the school closed, his wife had left him for some Tango instructor and frankly, drinking didn’t appear to be the most promising of careers. So he agreed to help Sonny.  

All Roger had to do was sit in the car and wait for Sonny to come out of the mansion with the little Chamberlain boy and then drive them to a cabin up near Pike’s Bay. Sonny said there was a hunting lodge up there where they could hide out for months if they had to. Roger convinced himself that he wouldn’t really be doing anything wrong necessarily; it was just a way to get back at those who had so much while he had so little. It wasn’t fair.  

Sonny blew it all though. He made it out of the mansion all right and Roger drove them up to the cabin. Sonny did have the cabin all set up as well. Unfortunately he didn’t know young master Steven Chamberlain was a diabetic and required a shot every day. So before long, young Chamberlain got sicker and sicker until he died.  Sonny went crazy and decided to cut the kid’s body up and mail it back the Chamberlain Estate. Roger tried to stop him. That’s how he got the long, jagged scar across his face. The reason none of the other prisoners really bothered him. It was a tough looking scar. But for Roger it was a painful reminder of how foolish he’d been and how everyday he regretted the poor young life lost. He wished he could take it all back.

Thankfully the jury took some pity on him and only gave him 20 years. Sonny wasn’t so lucky; he tried to escape and was gunned down in the prison courtyard ten years ago. He had a life sentence anyway.
Rain drops began to fall in the prison yard and one of the guards tapped Roger in the back.
“Keep digging, meat”, said the guard.

Roger lifted the sledgehammer over his shoulder and swung down on the never ending rock pile and felt the familiar ping in his hands. It was a penance never to be forgiven and Roger knew it. The rain fell harder and would never wash him clean of his sin.

Monday, September 26, 2011

No flowers

I haven’t bought a girl flowers in a very long time. I thought of it yesterday while I was at the grocery store. I used to pick up fresh flowers quite often when my previous girlfriend lived with me. It’s probably been at least two years since I bought a girl some flowers; or even just picked some up for myself just to change the smell in my apartment from a smoke filled den of boredom to a smoke filled den of boredom with flowers.

I know flowers can be kind of cheesy, but I do like putting together a nice bouquet and giving them to the girl that has become the center of my affection. It’s old fashioned and I appreciate it. I like to think the girls do too.

Sunday’s tend to have that effect on me. I find myself feeling a little overwhelmed with loneliness. Sunday’s are good days to spend a little quality time with your significant other. I know everyone has busy lives and if you have kids then it’s hard to make that time special, but I do think that a smile or a wink or a quick shoulder rub can relieve some of that loneliness.

Unless you live alone in a third floor apartment and you’re only real companion is a Muppet that looks down at you from his perch on the stereo; his mouth in a perpetual state of screaming. I kid, I love my Muppet. It was a wonderful gift and I’m happy to have it. And on occasion I only feel a little crazy when I talk to it. It sort of feels less like I’m talking to myself and… no, it feels exactly like I’m talking to myself. Myself personified in Muppet form.

So you can clearly see that I need a girlfriend. (A real girlfriend you smart asses. Not a Muppet girlfriend. You guys are sick) I’d like to buy flowers for someone with the capacity to smell them and tell me how happy they made her.

The only problem with having a girlfriend and feeling happy is that I tend not to have anything to write about. When I’m with a girl and she’s making me happy and I’m making her happy all my desire to gripe and complain seems to fade away and the only stories I can write are about sweet bunny rabbits getting ready for their annual snuggletime jamboree in Hug-a-bug county. It’s sweet and bright and not my usual fare. When I’m single things do take a darker twist.

It’s a hell of a bunny jamboree however, but for the last few years at least one lonely bunny has taken it upon himself to unleash some sort of disruptive element. Last year he let a lion loose right as Mayor McBunny was giving his famous, “love”, speech. It was horrible; white fur everywhere, a bloody bunny trail of carnage.

So take these flowers lady. Save the bunnies.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Rue the Woe - Alternate version

Justin opened the door to Jerry’s Honk and Drive and looked about the place. There were a few old hayseeds sitting at the counter, grumbling about the price of corn and Maggie the Waitress was pouring them some coffee. Justin realized that he didn’t know Maggie’s last name, he’d always known her as Maggie the Waitress. She smiled at him and he nodded a greeting. 

The old woman waved to Justin from one of the red vinyl booths at the back of the diner. She had already made herself comfortable. Her coat was off and hanging on one of the coat hooks near the jukebox. Her walker was placed next to the booth. Justin could see she was wearing a heavy knit sweater. It was quite colorful; almost too colorful for Justin’s comfort level.  It was vibrant and loud and it hurt Justin’s eyes a little. It also seemed a bit too warm for the day. It was chilly outside but it certainly wasn’t freezing.

He sat in the booth across from the old woman. She smiled at him as he tried to make himself comfortable. He wiped at his eyes quickly to make sure he wasn’t still tearing up.

“So what is this all about”, asked Justin.
“Do you want some coffee or anything dear? Maybe a hot chocolate?” said the old woman.
“No. I’m fine. Thank you. Where is Sally and what do you know about it?”

The woman took a tissue out from her sleeve and wiped at her nose. Justin noticed she was wearing lipstick and it must have been very old. It was slightly clumped on her bottom lip or maybe it was a wart, Justin couldn’t tell. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest with nervous syncopation.

“My name is Beatrice La Deveroux and I’m from New Orleans. I have been using that Greyhound bus for the last 35 years to get up to my sister’s place near Buckport. I’ve never gotten off that bus for any reason in all that time. I take it straight through. Today I broke that 35 year streak for you and Sally”.

Justin nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Beatrice continued her story.

“Sally had the seat next to me on the bus. What struck me about her was how pretty she was. I’m not one to judge solely on a person’s looks. I take people as they come, but it’s been my experience that pretty people fly, ugly people ride the Greyhound.”

Beatrice chuckled to herself at what she seemed to think was something very witty. Justin was starting to lose his famous patience and calm.
“Please, where is Sally”, he asked.

“I’m getting there. Don’t worry my dear”, she smiled at him again.

Maggie the Waitress walked up to the table. She had given up wearing the waitress uniform years ago and was in an extra large Metallica tee-shirt and what looked like maternity jeans. She wasn’t pregnant.

“What can I get for you all”, she asked.
“Nothing, thanks”, said Justin.
“Oh my, I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. But you know what; I’ve been craving some apple pie. Do you have any apple pie”, asked Beatrice.
“We sure do. It’s not homemade but it’s pretty damn decent if you ask me”, said Maggie.
“If you can heat it up a little bit I’d love to try it”, smiled Beatrice.

Maggie nodded and stepped away from the table. Justin looked at this Beatrice with pleading eyes and she picked her story back up.

“Sally, you see, was just about the prettiest girl I’ve seen ever ride that bus and I couldn’t help but want to talk to her. I introduced myself to her and she politely shook my hand. It was a weak, half-hearted handshake as if all the strength she ever had was just gone. I sat next to her and I tried to engage her in conversation. I asked her why such a pretty young thing would be riding the bus so early on such a cold gray day. She told me she was riding to meet you.”

“She was on the bus”, said Justin, “Why didn’t she get off?”
“Patience dear, I’m getting there”, she said.

“She told me that she had been in rehab for a while; something to do with the drugs. I didn’t want to press her for more information on that. It didn’t seem like my place to do so. She said she’d made such a fool of herself and wasn’t sure anyone would ever accept her. She did tell me how she had you though; that you were sweet and kind and never judged her too harshly. I could tell in her voice that she really loved you. It was a sweet look in her eyes. She had kind of a dreamy quality when she spoke about you”.

“Where is she”, demanded Justin, his patience now at an end, “I want you to tell me where she is right now”.

Maggie came to the table and put the warm apple pie in front of Beatrice. She lowered her nose to the plate and inhaled the swirling aroma of apples. Justin could have sworn she was drooling a little out of the corner of her mouth. It was something old people seemed to do.

“Sally told me that she couldn’t face you. She couldn’t dare look you in the face ever again. Not after what she had done. She said she’d take it all back if she could but she knew that she couldn’t. She never meant to hurt you Justin but now, she has to”.

“She has to hurt me? I don’t understand”, said Justin.

“I told her I’d get off here in Anderton and tell you that she wasn’t going to meet you. She was going to ride that bus for as far as she could and she’d never look back. She took my hand as she said that and made me swear to do it. I am a woman of my word and so here I am telling you that she’s never going to see you again”.

Justin’s mind couldn’t make his mouth work. He couldn’t think of anything to say to this crazy old woman. Beatrice picked up her fork and took a bite of the apple pie.

“Definitely not homemade, but that waitress was right. It is pretty damn decent”, she said.

Justin stood up from the booth and looked at Beatrice.

“I appreciate what you’ve tried to do and I think you’re an amazing person to do it. But I love Sally and there’s no way on this Earth I’m going to let her go. She’s the reason I get up in the morning and the reason I want to dream at night. I’ll never stop loving her. I’m going to go now. I’m going to get her”.

Beatrice scooped up more of the apple pie and paused.

“I hoped you’d say that”, she said, “Good luck my dear”.

Justin ran from the diner and back to his Chevy. He jumped inside, gunned the engine and roared down the road after the bus.

Rue the Woe Part II - Sally

Sally covered her face as the bus pulled away from the stop near Jerry’s Honk and Drive. She saw Justin running along the side, calling after her. She stifled the deep sobs she could feel in her chest. The old woman would tell him. She promised.

Rehab had gone about as well as could be expected. She went crazy and screamed and yelled and cried and threw up. She threw up a lot. She probably lost 20 pounds in vomit. Her throat was still sore from it. Her voice had a raspy quality now. The rehab counselor thought she sounded like Lauren Bacall. It was a nice complement but she could tell he wanted to get in her pants.  He was such a nerd too.

All the guys at rehab tried to smooth talk her. Even while she was in the throes of withdrawal guys were still hitting on her. She hated it. Being pretty was fine but it was somehow a terrible burden. It wasn’t the attention she wanted. She did discover that it was probably why she started using in the first place. She wanted to be ugly.

It was something the old woman had said to her when she sat down next to her. That old lady, Beatrice was her name, said Sally was probably the prettiest girl she’d ever seen riding the Greyhound. She told her she was surprised because pretty people flew on airplanes while ugly people rode the Greyhound. That old lady, Beatrice, was crazy, but she was kind. She had chuckled at her own joke in a cute, old lady way. Like she had seen it all and knew what it all meant and was in on the joke of it all.

Sally had been feeling sick on the bus since leaving rehab. It wasn’t from withdrawal. It was a sickness in her heart and every beat seemed to make it worse. She couldn’t bear to face Justin.  She loved him too much but she knew that every time he looked at her with his big brown eyes she’d remember how awful she was to him. She’d remember the fire. She’d remember how he dragged her from the house into the yard and cried and screamed at her to wake up.

Sally told Beatrice everything. It just poured out of her. She told Beatrice more than she ever spilled to the counselors or in group. It was a flood of things. It was the first time she had been completely honest with anyone. There was something comforting in the eyes of a stranger. Beatrice had held her hand and listened quietly and patiently. Sally told her she just didn’t think she could get off the bus in Anderton. Beatrice told her not to worry. She would take care of it.

Sally looked out the window at the empty farm fields flying by as 60 miles an hour. She’d seen those same wretched fields her entire life. She lost her virginity in one of those damn fields with that jerk Kenny Richards. That was really the first time she understood the curse of beauty.  She looked away from the fields and picked up one of the magazines she had brought with her. The model on the cover of the magazine made her feel sicker and she dropped it in the empty seat next to her.

Her mind went back to Justin. He always told her not to pay attention to those magazines because they were designed to make people feel bad about themselves. She thought he was being silly at the time. She needed those beauty tips in those magazines if she was going to get an A in Mr. Foster’s chemistry class. All those short skirts and tight tops were her weapons. That Mr. Foster was a sucker for any female attention. He actually sent Sally a card on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t sign it but she knew it was from him. What a dirty old perv.

Justin wanted to report him to the dean but Sally told him not to. She had already started using by then and she didn’t really care if dirty old Mr. Foster wanted to stare at her breasts all day. As long as she got an A she didn’t care.

Sally brushed her hair off her face and looked out the window again. She wished Justin had gotten on the bus and was sitting next to her now. They could start a new life together wherever this bus stopped. They could get jobs and a home, get married and have kids and no one would have to know anything about them. She imagined Justin and her, sitting on a couch together cuddling under a blanket because they didn’t have enough money to pay for heat but not caring because they had each other.

Sally heard the honking just then. It was loud and blaring and constant. She tried to look back behind her but couldn’t really see what was going on. She looked up at the bus driver and she could see he was watching something in his rearview mirror. The honking got louder and she heard the roar of a V8 eight pull alongside the bus. The bus driver hit the brakes and the bus came to a long hard stop. She heard the squeal of another vehicle’s brakes.

“What the shit is going on”, cursed the bus driver and he opened the bus door and stepped out. He barely got to the road when Justin pushed up past him onto the bus. He was panting and sweating and was wild eyed. Sally stood up and everything she was so worried about melted away.

Justin put out his hand to her.

“C’mon baby. We’re getting off this bus”, he said and smiled at her.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Rue the Woe

The crows cawed on the telephone lines overhead. Justin looked up at them as he leaned against his Chevy. The crows fluttered a bit and settled down. Justin could hear their subtle cooing in the silence of the harvested fall farmland. The fields were clear and he could see for miles in every direction. It was easy enough to see Sally’s bus approaching. The bus stop was just in front of Jerry’s Honk and Drive Diner. They had a decent breakfast plate but not much else.

Justin flicked his cigarette onto the dusty road and walked toward the bus stop. He wanted to be right at the door as Sally got off. Sally had spent the last four months in rehab and he was excited to see her. He had already started to forgive her for the small fire she set and the damages to his mother’s house.

The bus slowed and the breaks squealed as the Greyhound came to a halt. Justin cleared his throat and smiled. He should have brought some flowers but he didn’t think of it until now. He was too nervous.  The bus doors opened and there was a pause. No one seemed to be getting off. Justin looked up at the bus driver pleadingly but he didn’t move.
A walker appeared at the top of the stairs and a well bundled old woman looked down at Justin.

“Help an old woman off the bus would you”, she asked Justin.

He reached up and helped the woman step down onto the dry country road. She only had a small bag with her and Justin took it from her as formality dictated. Justin was raised to be polite and he just couldn’t help himself. People around town figured it was why he wound up with Sally in the first place. He was just too nice and couldn’t be hurt by Sally’s constant insults and derision. Sally seemed to have that prettiest girl in town chip on her shoulder and she tossed it around like a medieval Morningstar.

Justin made sure the old woman was steady on her feet and looked back up toward the bus stairs for Sally.  

“She’s not going to be there I’m afraid”, said the old woman.
“Pardon me”, said Justin.
“Sally. She won’t be getting off this bus. Or any bus for that matter”.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s get out of this cold and I’ll tell you all I know”, and the old woman started to walk towards Jerry’s Honk and Drive Diner.

The bus doors closed and with a roar of the engine started to pull away. Justin started to pound on the door, asking after Sally, pleading with the bus driver to stop and let Sally off the bus. He ignored Justin and stepped on the gas. The bus pulled off and left Justin standing in the road covered in dust.

Justin could feel grit in his eyes and it stung, but not worse than the pain he felt in his chest. He didn’t move to wipe his eyes. He just stood there in the road watching the bus drive out of sight.

He turned around when her heard a bell ring and saw the old woman making her way into the door of Jerry’s Honk and Drive Diner. Justin kicked the dirt and started walking toward Jerry’s. He heard the crows overhead again, cawing, almost cackling at his broken heart.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I’m far more infected with the idea of short story fiction today than I have been in a while. There was something about yesterday’s little story that really sparked something in me. It somehow made me realize that I don’t have to write a full 1500 page novel to be a writer. I can with 1500 pages, but it can be 1500 pages of short stories.

I don’t know why I never came to this realization before. I think Stephen King might have had something to do with it as well. I realized that a lot of his books are short story compilations. Not to ignore his volumes of weighty tomes of murder and gore, but he made a great career of the short story.

I think I’d like to do that and am now refocusing my energies for that purpose.
Hopefully this infection will become a full blown fever and I’ll finally be able to quit the cubicle wasteland and actually pursue a passionate career.

Wouldn’t that be nice, although I wonder what I would write about if I didn’t have all this crippling depression?

I’d like to know from you, faithful follower; if there any particular short stories you’ve read in this blog that you’d like to see fleshed out a little more and maybe put in actual print.  

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Harry swept

Harry was cleaning up the mess left behind by those rotten kids. Those kids ran up and down the neighborhood and just threw their junk all over the sidewalk and on Harry’s ramp.  He had a ramp that led up to his front porch and all the children used it for their bike, tricycle, power wheel, roller skate, skateboard and whatever other stupid transportation device their fool parents bought them, turn around. So all the kids would leave their ice cream wrappers and candy remains strewn about his sidewalk and front porch area.

It was so aggravating because when Harry was a child he wouldn’t dream of disrespecting his neighbor’s property. He couldn’t understand why all these jerk children just had no respect for things that weren’t theirs.  He considered it was their parents. They were all idiots, telling their children how precious and special they were all the time. Harry knew that not all children were special or precious, some grew up to be Hitler or Stalin. He mused as he swept the sidewalk that he was pretty sure one of these kids would certainly grow up to be a complete cretin.

He had his eye on this little chubby kid named Ethan, of all things. He was a really fat little butter ball of a boy. He had tits. It was gross. The kid was probably only eight years old but he had tits bigger than Harry’s poor deceased wife. Fat little Ethan was the most disrespectful of the bunch and always had something smart-assed to say when anyone yelled at him. Harry had caught little Ethan taking a piss on Mrs. Stafford’s front lawn a month ago. Harry yelled from his porch for Ethan to stop that and to go home if he had to piss. Ethan just continued pissing and then yelled back, “When you gotta go, you gotta go”.

Harry was completely flabbergasted at that. He imagined himself running off his porch, down the ramp and grabbing that smart-ass by the neck and shaking the shit out of him till all the strength was gone from his arms. But Harry just wasn’t that young anymore and the idea of running anywhere faded 20 years ago. He did consider telling Ethan’s parents, but they were never home. They were a full time working couple of some kind. Ethan seemed to spend a lot of time with some cleaning lady or housekeeper or something.  Plus the kid was so fat and lifting him by his neck, well, that probably would have ruined Harry’s back.

Harry put his broom away in the garage and then went back around the front to the porch to get a full panoramic view of the area he just cleaned. Harry appreciated cleanliness on his property. He couldn’t understand why anyone would let the front of their home look like some dirty communists lived there. He’d seen the type, all dingy and unkempt. He knew those commies were always in their basements, plotting, not taking care of their property because it was really the States and not theirs. He figured they were easy to spot that way and maybe that’s what McCarthy should have been focused on instead of who was what in Hollywood. Would have gotten a lot more commies that way.

Harry sat on the porch bench and reached for his lemonade. Except, there was no lemonade. Margie had been dead 12 years and wasn’t around to put his lemonade there like she did for all those years after he did yard work. Harry dropped his outstretched hand to his lap and felt the tears welling in his eyes.

He fought against them and muttered, “No. No more crying”. He looked back out over the neighborhood and he saw some of the neighborhood kids starting to emerge from their homes for their afternoon playtime. The sunlight was golden through the trees and somewhere a breeze rustled the grass.

Monday, September 19, 2011

New car, new teeth, new thoughts

This weekend I entered the 21st Century with the purchase of a used 2008 Jeep Compass. Mind you it still is filled with 20th century technology like manual locks and windows, but it does have a CD player. Although I’m not sure how to fit a record in there and how do you change the needle in there? I’ll have to look in the manual I guess. Oh right! It didn’t come with the manual. I guess I am the only one that kept the original owner’s manual with my car.

I will say that I will honestly miss my old 1999 Saturn SL2. We had a lot of adventures together. She took excellent care of me and even though I treated her bad at times she never let me down. Except for the times she completely let me down. But I couldn’t really blame her. It was usually my fault for the abuses she suffered. I wonder if she cries at night in the use car lot. I drove by it this morning and I tried not to look for her. I didn’t want her to think I was searching for her. God, breaking up is hard.

It’s hard to get used to a new car and I hope we also have all kinds of wonderful adventures together. I’m still in the super nervous behind the wheel stage of my new car and I’ll probably be pretty timid with her for a while. It is nice not to have to wonder what that rattling noise is or be embarrassed to drive down the street with the muffler belching and coughing.

As I also love my dentist, I have been assured I only have one more visit left to correct my entire horrible tooth related ills. I was there this morning for more work and it’s really annoying.  A few more fillings and I can finally just go for the regular six month check-ups. And this time, I mean it. This whole dental nightmare has really taught me the value of taking care of one’s teeth and I highly recommend it. Not that I didn’t take care of mine, I’m cursed with bad teeth due to genetics, but it is important to do all that really cool dental stuff.

So, I’ve got a new car, new teeth and a new week; let’s try and remain optimistic. This week is all about buckling down and getting a lot of work done. Then there are the domestics I have to take care of, like grocery shopping and paying some other bills and such. I’ll probably have to do some laundry as well. So I’ll try to come up with something far more interesting to write about as the week goes on.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Burrito life

Sometimes life is sort of like a burrito. There’s so many things wrapped up in the business of every day-ness. Sometimes it’s spicy, sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it gets messy, and sometimes it’s inedible.  But I think it’s a very good analogy for this crazy life we lead. Plus there’s a tasty tortilla.

There have been times in my life when I’ve been as near blind drunk a person can be without actually going blind and the only saving grace I’ve had is a delicious freshly made burrito. Could God have invented a more perfect food combination? I don’t really think so. I think God saw what was created and thought, “Mmm, this is good”, and then wiped burrito juice off his long white beard.

If you haven’t put it together by now, I need a burrito in a very serious way. I am just counting the minutes off the clock until burrito time.  Right now it’s only burrito forty, so I have to wait until burrito:burrito. I wish my alarm clock did that. Just blinked in glowing red letters, burrito….burrito….burrito….. I bet I’d get up on time for that.

It really is one of the world’s most perfect food combinations. Bless the Mexicans for this culinary delight. Today also marks Mexican Independence Day. So perhaps that might be a partial reason for my burrito lust.

I’ve never seen any of the Twilight movies or read any of the books, but I bet you the blood hunger those teenage vampires have is akin to my burrito lust right now. Although I might push the pretty teenage girl down on my way to the burrito vendor and I wouldn’t have the perfect hair and glowing eyes looking mournfully back at her as she’s devoured by wereburritos.

Okay, I’m going to get my burrito before I just start writing burrito over and over again a la The Shining.

“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”
“All work and no burrito makes Jack a dull burrito”

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Who is that guy in the mirror?

Gray hairs, I’ve got ‘em.  I noticed how much this morning as I was brushing my hair. I have very thick hair and I’m very happy to have it. I have a lot of it too. I’m in no danger of losing it any time soon. In fact, in 80 years, when they lay me to rest (snicker) I’ll probably still have a pretty full head of hair. It’ll be silvery gray though.

I’m not afraid of my gray hair. I know some men of my age start to freak out a bit when their hair starts turning gray, but I’m not scared. I’ve wanted gray hair most of my life. The coolest thing about being a guy is that gray hair makes us look distinguished instead of just old. Sorry ladies. Although, one of the most beautiful women I have ever known had long flowing gray hair, so don’t fret too much. She was hot. (I say “was” because I haven’t seen her in a long time)

But I am not worried about my grays. I think it adds the seriousness my baby face needs to convey my adult points. I do look pretty young. In fact, except for the added weight I seem to now carry directly under my chin, I look pretty much the same as I did as a teenager. I’m not bragging. It’s just a fact. I have a boyish face. I think my grays will level the playing field a little bit.

The funny thing about it all is that there are times when I look in the mirror and I’m amazed at the face staring back at me. It’s amazing how time can ravage one’s looks. I’m only mildly vain in this regard. I look at it more as a science experiment for the most part; the ravages of time on my own face.  It’s only after a long night of boozing it up do I find myself not recognizing the person staring back. I wonder who that guy is and what he did to that 20 year old that had his whole life ahead of him. Luckily I haven’t tried to punch that guy in the face.

Getting older, it’s not a bad thing. I mean, sure, there are down sides. My feet hurt and my knees hurt and I’ve discovered new pains in my back, my teeth are failing and my hands sometimes hurt. But that’s just life. It happens and there’s very little that can be done about it. I’m just glad to be here I guess. And I hope my Russian girlfriend likes it when she comes to visit me. (Okay, I just laughed out loud at myself.)

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

It’s only a dream Wednesday

Wednesday woke up from a terrible dream with a shout. He’d been fighting with dragons and wizards and cheese puffs and he was losing. It was frantic dream battle with lasers and explosions and fire balls bursting all around him. All he had to fight the hordes of hell that were rushing him was a dull sword and a magic marker.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and tried to shake the image of that half naked wizard being sodomized by that dragon while they both breathed fire and shit. Plus the cheese puffs; they were so bloody inside. Maggots and cartoon characters spilling out after he poked one with his sword.

“No more meatloaf before bed”, said Wednesday to the empty bedroom. He got out of bed and rubbed his eyes. It was still strangely dark outside. He looked at his alarm clock and realized he still had three hours to go before he had to get out of bed and start getting ready for work.  

This was a welcome discovery, but then it was tempered with a fear of returning to that hellish dream. Wednesday flopped back down on his bed and flipped the pillow over to the cool side and closed his eyes with a deep sigh. He’d try to think about something pleasant before drifting back to sleep.

He remembered a woman he saw on the train earlier in the week. She wasn’t exactly beautiful but she seemed to have some strange attractiveness to her. She was wearing a black sleeveless top and black slacks and she had a great figure. Her arms were toned and slightly tan, as if she worked outdoors but didn’t make a big deal about it. Her face looked a little tired but there was something very pretty about it. Wednesday couldn’t exactly put his finger on why she was so plainly attractive.

She was playing some game on her cell phone and she seemed deeply involved in it. So much so that she never even noticed Wednesday looking at her. He liked the way she had casually brushed her long light brown hair off her forehead and whipped it back over her shoulder. She chewed on her thumb as her other thumb worked the cell phone screen. There was something just adorable about it.

The capper for Wednesday was her icy blue ices. They really stood out in her face and Wednesday wondered if angels had eyes like that. So blue and clear, but able to be weaponized for that, “why did you do that to me” argument that so often happens in relationships.

Wednesday started to snore and he drifted back to sleep. No dragons, no wizards and certainly no cheese puffs, just icy pools of eyes staring back at him as he fell into blackness.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Got to get to work…

I’ve been dealing with a certain level of ignorance I am completely unfamiliar with this morning. It’s a whole new level of self-centered ignorance that I didn’t even know existed. This self involved tripe has left me completely astonished and basically in shock. I’m baffled at the greed. I really am. 

The thing that really gets me is that my company has already admitted their fault and has indicated they would cover the loss. This is apparently not good enough for some people and they want more than they are entitled to. I especially hate it when it’s a husband/wife tag team going back and forth at me. It’s really just annoying and they should just stop it. The important thing is everyone was okay. No one was seriously injured. A car can be fixed; time is already lost so there’s no sense crying over it, you can’t get it back. It’s time to move forward and get on with your lives.

So as much as I would love writing more about it, it’s put me well behind for today’s planned activities and I can’t devote the time I need dear reader. I hope to have more soon.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Over a barrel

Hello again true believers. Thank Stan Lee for the intro. About two weeks ago I wrote about the City of Chicago being a pimp and how it was treating me like its number one whore. Well, the City, “Pimpcago”, has now decided I’m not worth it and stabbed me in the neck several times and left me in some prairie to be found by some random neighbor.

I’ll not go into too much detail but let’s just say the City and I have some “unfinished business” and I’m considering a Patrick Swayze type Next of Kin revolt. That and I want my wallet back. 

It’s very difficult to own a car in the city these days, what with parking restrictions, stickers, plate stickers, potholes, vandals, thefts, minor damages that occur over time. Not to mention jerk hole neighbors that decide where your car is parked is somehow their business. It’s pretty infuriating.

So I’m starting to lean toward a carless existence in the city. We’ve got an amazing public transportation system and it’s rather inexpensive considering the cost of gas these days. But then, I’m an American and I love the freedom having a car provides. Yeah, on second thought, I think I will be getting a new car eventually. Well, a new used car. Who the hell can afford a new car these days? I mean seriously, where do they expect people to come up with this money?

And why are cars so expensive anyway? I mean sure, a new car has more technology on board than the Apollo space missions combined, but that can’t be the only cost motivator, can it? When I see those new car commercials on TV I get a little ill. I just can’t imagine any truth to the ads at all. Not even the “hidden camera” Hyundai commercials. I think those are all crap. I mean, if a car costs more than $12,000 I think it’s a rip off. What could possibly be worth $60,000 in a damn car? Throw in a jetpack/helicopter/hot tub and I might consider $60,000 for new car. But in reality, most of us can’t afford that and probably will never be able to afford that. The best I can hope for is a decent used car that doesn’t have any dead prostitutes in the trunk.  Or if it did, then I hope the price can be easily negotiated.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

My 9/11 piece

As I won’t be writing on the actual 10 year anniversary of 9/11 I thought I’d write about it today. Also, just for those playing along, I won’t be writing tomorrow either as I’ll be at the second wedding of the three I’ve to attend.

Ten years ago and three weeks prior to the tragedies of 9/11, I was in New York City. I was there for work for a training seminar. It was a three week long seminar so on the weekends me and other colleagues would hop on the train and go into New York to catch the sights and sounds. It was my first time in New York and I loved it.  

On the last weekend of this long trip I went on a full on site-seeing bonanza. We went to Battery Park and saw the monument to the Merchant Marines. We tried to get to The Statute of Liberty but that line was blocks and blocks long. It did make me very proud that so many people were there to see that wonderful gift from France. I took a picture with a woman dressed like Lady Liberty, she gave me a nice peck on the check and it’s one of my favorite photos.

My traveling companion and I decided to go and check out the World Trade Center. It was breathtaking. It was really a beautiful building. I’m from Chicago, the birthplace of the skyscraper and even I was impressed with the tower. We rode the elevator up to the observation deck on the top of the South Tower and it was an incredible view. In Chicago, the Sear’s tower’s observation area was all glassed in and you couldn’t get onto the actual top of the building. The tower though, you were in the open air and could look out in all directions. It was just amazing. I took tons of photos from the top and was in a bunch as well, pointing out over the city, playing the new God.

My friend and I went back down to the Tower plaza and I took more photos. I have a favorite one of the old globe and fountain that was in the plaza square. The sun shone behind it as it was setting and there was a real magic in the air that whole day. On the train ride back to New Jersey I fell asleep like a small child all tuckered out from the days adventure. That and I was a little drunk from all the drinking on Bleeker Street.

Fast forward to 9/11/01 and I had just got out of the shower when I heard on the radio that a plane had hit the Tower. The way the initial details came in over the radio they made it sound like a small Cessna had hit the building. I thought it was strange since I had just been there. I went downstairs and turned the little TV on by the ironing board and started ironing my pants for the work day ahead.

As the TV warmed up I could see that there was a little more damage than what a Cessna could cause and that’s when I saw the second plane, live, crash into the second Tower. I stopped breathing. I stopped moving. All I could think was, “I was just there, I was JUST there”.

My generation had seen tragedy on TV before. In 1985 were bore witness to the Challenger disaster, but that was so far away and I had never been on a space shuttle so it was hard to really relate to it. When those planes hit the Towers though I couldn’t help but think about all those employees I had seen when I visited. The elevator workers, the security guards, the business people just going about their daily activities, there was a real possibility that some of them, that all of them were dead. So I felt something with this tragedy I hadn’t felt with any other, a real connection to a place.

As the day’s events unfolded and all our eyes were glued to TV’s and all our prayers were being silently muttered I imagined myself in a fox hole somewhere in the world, drafted into a war without end. I had gone into work that morning because I really didn’t know what else to do. I was in a state of mild shock and disbelief. I used to work kitty-corner from the Sears Tower and as soon as I got to work my boss told me to go back home as the offices were closing. There was a mass exodus from Downtown Chicago the likes of which I had never seen and will probably never see again in my life time.

While waiting in Union Station for the next train home I was sitting in the Snuggery, no booze was being served of course, watching the TV’s along with the rest of the travelers and I started speaking to the guy next to me. I don’t remember his name, but we were talking about the fact that America was now at war with someone and we didn’t even know who. He had to catch his train and I remember shaking his hand and saying, “I hope we don’t meet again in some dirty foxhole”. He laughed and off he went while I continued to watch the aftermath on TV.

Here it is, ten years later and I’m happy to say that I’m not in a foxhole. (Although I can’t imagine that a cubicle is much better) I’ve had a lot of fortune and troubles in the last ten years, when the world we knew it changed forever. I’m happy to be here and I am happy to have experienced all of life’s trials and tribulations when so many didn’t.

It’s my proud honor to remember all of those that are no longer with us. I am more proud of us for how we pulled through and I hope this dark anniversary will remind us that we’re not as different as we think and compromise is always an option.

Never Forget.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Little pink houses

Cherry and Luke walked up the stairs from Union Station and headed toward Michigan Avenue. Cherry had her Walkman on, blasting her Cindy Lauper tape and wasn’t really paying attention to anything around them. Luke was trying to light his cigarette. He thought it was weird they wouldn’t let him light it right after he got off the train. It was never an issue before. The conductor started yelling at him not to smoke on the platform. Who cared about smoking on the platform? Then he saw the signs banning smoking and guessed it was a new policy. Which totally, like, sucked.

Luke took a long drag on his cigarette and looked toward the bridge over the river. He saw all these people with things up to their ears, like little portable transistor radios. But not. They were like, not radios. He nudged Cherry who continued to insist that girls just wanted to have fun. He nudged her again and she scowled at him and took her headphones off.

“What”, she demanded.
“Does something seem, like, not right to you?”
“Like no. A-dohy. It’s Downtown. So like, no.”
“What do those, like, people by the bridge have by their ears?”

Cherry looked to where Luke was pointing and she saw the same odd little boxes everyone was holding to their ear. She then saw a man in a dark suit push past and he was just talking out loud into a little wire by his neck. She looked at Luke and shrugged.  It was the big city and things were always a little different.

“So that doesn’t look, like, weird to you at all”, asked Luke.
“Don’t have a cow, its cool. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Cherry and Luke started walking up Adams toward Michigan Ave. and it was all the honking that caught his attention. All the cars, all the cars were like, futuristic or something. They were all low profiled and had all kinds of cool line. Luke was a car guy and this stuff was right out of popular mechanics. He stopped walking and Cherry bumped into him.

“Is the Auto-show this week baby”, he asked.
“No. A-dohy. You’re being weird”, replied a snotty Cherry.

Cheery snapped her gum and something slowly dawned on her. All the girls walking around her had the flattest hair. Like, none of them had even bothered to tease up their bangs. Everyone looked so bad in her opinion. And all the clothes were so drab, too many grays and browns. These girls were no match for her bright pink neon tights. She snapped her gum again. She looked at Luke to tell him about how all these skanks were ugly. She didn’t say anything though and followed Luke’s gaze up to the window of a store.

There was a TV in the window, but it was super small. Like it was thin but the screen was so big. It was just about the biggest TV screen Cherry had ever seen. That was when she started to think that maybe something was wrong.

“What the hell”, asked Luke.
“Um, maybe there is something a little, like, wrong”, said Cherry.

They both backed away from the window and into a guy in a business suit. He dropped his iPad. He grabbed after it and grabbed it before it hit the ground. He yelled at Luke.

“Watch it you dumb ass. You know how much these things cost!”

Luke could see something on the screen; it was like a movie playing or something. He mumbled an apology and grabbed Cherry by the hand.

“Let’s get the hell out of here”.

They ran back toward Union Station and back down the stairs and back to 1986.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

That’s unfortunate, really

So I’ve caught another cold, already. My immune system has gotten pretty weak is would seem. I’m always catching a damn cold these days. I was good all summer, but as soon as the weather cooled off, BAM! A new cold.

Some have suggested it’s allergies but I am not allergic to anything. That’s one of the odd blessing of genetics I suppose.

The really unfortunate thing is how much work I have to do today and how I really must get to it. I’d much rather write something but duty as they say calls. So I hope to have more time to write something tomorrow.

P.S. Happy 65th birthday to Freddie Mercury. We've come a long way as a society where Google can wish a deceased homosexual singer a happy birthday. Good for us. I'm proud.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Slow blog, take it easy…

At some point I realized that I hadn’t written anything today. I was pretty distracted by my new Russian girlfriend this morning so I just didn’t have a chance to write anything. Excuse me.

Yeah, you read that right. It would seem I have a Russian girlfriend. One of the various dating sites I am on connected me to a very lovely young woman. (No, it is not Russian Mail Order Brides or other derivations therein, jerk) She’s is very pretty and likely looking for a way to escape the doldrums of Russian country life. Why not talk to a desperate American man? She seems nice though. She’s a pharmacist in a little Russian town or so she’s told me. She could be a retired KGB agent looking to take revenge on the capitalists who took away her government job after America won the Cold War. Who can actually know for sure?

I know nothing is going to happen with her. I am not going to send her money to come to America. I am not going to get suckered into giving her my credit card information or anything like that. I am, however, suckered by a pretty woman taking an interest in me. I fall for that every time. We’ve exchanged e-mails now for about two weeks, almost daily, and except for the broken English she seems very genuine.

Every time I get a new e-mail I shake my head and call myself an idiot. It’s ridiculous to feel a little happiness with each new e-mail from a girl I’ll never actually meet in person. It’s so silly and I am honestly embarrassed by it. But if I’m going to write this blog I have to write the truth so I guess that’s why I’m writing about it. (Wow, can’t wait for the comments on this one.) Who can’t relate to having a relationship with a Russian woman living nearly 5000 miles away? I mean, c’mon.

I also think it’s silly because on all of these dating websites I’ve been using, this girl is really the only one to show any actual interest. Even women living three miles away from me haven’t bothered to respond to my simple messages. They are seemingly hung up on superficial things while my little Russian princess just wants to know how my day was.

As you can see, I’m a little torn about it. I know it’s pretty stupid and frankly, sad, for a guy like me to have an e-mail relationship with a Russian woman. But there’s something very sweet about her and I’d feel a little sad to not talk with her. I mean, what would you do? Would you tell this sweet girl that you really think she’s actually a 56 year old Polish man trying to scam a stupid American out of his thousands? Or would you let the silly fantasy play out and enjoy the unreality of it for a while before being slammed back to Earth?

She is really pretty by the way. Sigh. All I can hear in my head is that old Tom & Jerry cartoon, “told you so”, music. Wah-waaah.

Or this -

Thursday, September 1, 2011

I didn’t even notice, my son…

Yesterday I completely forgot to write a blog. This is the first time I just plum forgot to do it. Mind you I was very busy at work and I barely had time to screw around on Facebook even. So I hope those that were anxiously awaiting that Wednesday blog aren’t too disappointed. We’ll see if we can’t fix that now.

At some point this morning I had a dream about my son. I’ve never had a dream about any of my prospective children; ever. It was just one of the things that I don’t seem to dream about; until sometime this morning that is. It was more than just a dream about my son but it was about my whole family, my dream immediate family. I had a wife and a son and both didn’t seem to like me very much.

I could see why of course, my wife was my ex-girlfriend who has a searing and bubbling distaste for me most of the time and the child, who was probably two to three years old in the dream could already talk, just like his mother and he had no problem expressing his feeling that I was, “creeping him out”. Who says that to their Father? Besides Jesus of course and we all know how that story ended.

The child was just adorable though. He was blonde like his mother with bright blue/hazel eyes. He was chubby and happy and I could feel how much I loved him. His mother was with us in the dream and she looked like she had just given birth to him, a little tired but lovely as ever. The whole dream seemed to take place in someone’s apartment while a party was going on. I remember the dream being rather sepia toned. It had a faded photograph picture quality at some points and then other times it seemed vibrantly colored.   I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t upset. I was just there doing the things a dad does.

My boy was barefoot and we were comparing foot size. I was pushing back against his little feet with my big feet and he was laughing and giggling like it was the most fun he’d ever had. I felt like it was the most fun I ever had. I’d look back at my wife and she’d smile at us, looking tired. That was the part that unnerved me most was how tired she looked. I don’t think anything was wrong though; being a mom is tough work. But I didn’t get to find out really because my alarms went off and I was forced into the real world where I’m single and have no wife or child.

In the real world I’m a blogger and work in a cube handling insurance claims. I have a beat up old car that’s a head ache and so many money and emotional issues I can’t decide which is more profitable to explore resolving. But for a few dream minutes I was a dad and a husband and that seemed all right.