Armistice

     Whenever I emerge triumphant from the bullshit-ed-ness of the domestic affliction known as hiccoughs (a bullshit-ed spelling, if anyone would ever ask me, and they should, because I have like four other ideas), I experience an odd tingle of regret, nostalgia; a misplaced desire for one last indulgence. I adapt quickly but mourn the loss of change. It’s most likely low among the reasons I don’t date. The development of an annoying bodily function, appreciated in its absence after being dominated and dismissed, as an analogy for my significant relationships with women aside, I recently experienced said dilemma from the other end. In other words, I had diarrhea for six days and kind of missed it on the seventh.

   Day 1: My last night of work in Colorado. A recycled frozen cake and several sodas are produced as parting gifts, making for a fine lunch between four hour sessions of manual labor. Around 7AM I free myself from the shackles of state tax as a post-coital hummingbird, sans bubble gut. An hour nap is plenty before a High Life and the procurement of a U-Haul and mushroom lamburger with a local chili beer in town. Six hours of loading and several Shiners later, the stir commences…

   Day 2: I awake around 3AM for the first session. Its standard, as these experiences go. I’m left a bit dazed and used, but I attribute the feeling more to basic exhaustion than any form of illness. Around 6 I unload my body before loading the rest of the truck, with a PowerAde and nip of vodka to guide me through some basic cleaning. Still empty (physically, to complete the trifecta alongside the daily emotional and spiritual vacuum), I gas up and gas out before procuring a bottle of Pepto for the road. I finish half the bottle and four Gas’n’Sip Sit’n’Shits before reaching the dreaded hotel in Amarillo…

   Day 3: It’s getting worse. I calm the dachshund and make it to bed and shit myself in my sleep. I awake with the urgency and brief satisfaction that I’ve caught things just in time, but time is a tricky thing when you believe you’re succumbing to dysentery in a pan-handular discount inn. The mess isn’t quite substantial, but it definitely hit the pants. I muster the minimal effort of sink-washed briefs and tub-cleansed jeans before allowing myself the trust of another nap, face down. Around 7AM I stumble back to the facilities and indulge what has become the standard, a single blast of pond scum. The thermal top no longer clings to my skin. The beard is fuller due to a facial recession. I groggily cling to a barely adequate amount of towel around my declining waist and visit the coin-op washer dryers. There’s no vending machine for soaps, so I grab a bar from the maid’s cart and toss it in. I know I have to eat, so I risk a quick visit to the continental breakfast, assuming guests are towel-ed allowed. The stares are brief, and the toast, eggs, and banana stay down. I struggle through some water and another expulsion before sliding back into cleansed clothes and hitting the road. I should note that the hotel experience was the only time I felt gravely ill. For the most part I’m normal (shut up). No cramps, no fever. Just an infuriating mistrust of my own little butthole. I make the rest of the drive to Mineola, with black-water pop stops every 2-3 hours. The basics are unloaded and another PowerAde (at this point a sponsor of my gradual recovery) is downed as I speed away towards Halloween. I don the lobster shirt and my father’s gray suit that hasn’t fit in the waist since I was under 165 lbs. and hit the pub, hesitant in my exuberance. Several factors now contribute to the oddity within. I make it through the evening long enough to burden a friend’s already struggling toilet with my now expected dilemma…

   Day 4: Made it through the night. The morning begins as they’ve began, and I take the belt down a notch before picking up my brother and dropping off a section of mutilated Cosby kids. We make the drive out to Mineola and unload the truck and more and head back to Dallas in the sunset of my accepted fate. I’ll be 30 in less than 3 weeks and dead in less than 2 at this rate. A PowerAde (yes, PowerAde) aids the journey back to N. Dallas and my haunting past. It’s strange to be back, again. Nostalgia and reunions and worry and wants and endless shitting all weigh heavily amidst the blossoming autumn of everything. It’s not meant to be the same, a return to a non-existent routine. The exodus of dark matter and tattered waste from my body, my past in this region, my 20’s, my bullshit indifference and narcissistic self-loathing, is a necessary evil. The metaphor looms. I come to a hint of this understanding as The Boss guides me towards another night of shits and revelry at the pub. I head back to the same friend’s home (fuck it, it’s Charles) and burden his throne again before a night of unrest…

   Day 5: I’ve gone, and done it, again. Actually, this one was different. I awake in time to make the bathroom, and am actually standing above the toilet contemplating nausea and the nearly wet dream I was forced out of by a lack of rectal REM. As the upper heaves fade the lower region responds, and the shart escapes. Far humbled by now, I complete the cycle (with real detergent!) and crawl back to a toweled rest of mistrust and shame. Charles awakes early and checks in, noting my embrace of Into the Wild repose. My apologies are waved away, and I slide into a different loose-fitting outfit and battle another day. Tonight, I decide, I’ll just get really drunk. A bit of bar-hopping and fish and fruit sit well before disgracing the home of another friend’s bathroom. Luckily, bath salts absolve the sin and smell of what has become more of a cabbage soup. I’m told that the blackness is a by-product of over-indulgence in Pepto, and am relieved to at the very least dismiss death as impending. The right group of friends accompany a night out which produces little victories such as free shots and dry farts. I get cocky, and it catches up. Beer and whiskey and pancakes and coffee and sausage and syrup are conquered as I celebrate the passage of time and intestinal bacteria. That night, I go a solid 8-10 hours without producing a hint of waste below the waist. I do, however, grace the frequented porcelain god with massive offerings of mouth expulsions. Again, no illness felt. I was barely hungover the next day when the shits returned…

   Day 6: It’s just another day. No home, no job, no reason to hope for a timely end to disease. I’ve checked WebMD, and accepted that a doctor’s visit is required. Or is it? After a morning of repeat offenses, I manage a day replete with sushi, basketball, a movie, and steak and potatoes well lacking in unwanted sides of butt stuff. Speaking too soon, as I often do, I awake in the night to old familiar…

   Day 7: “They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes, drums... drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow lurks in the dark. We cannot get out... they are coming.” Acceptance. Understanding. Reflection. Find comfort in this emptiness. There is a why. I’ll go watch Gravity and figure out my life. Who changed all these mirrors? It’s 9PM and I’m drinking beer. It’s familiar, and doesn’t feel right. I’m Kevin Costner on dry land. Lost in a newfangled haze, I skip the realization that I’ve made it since the morning without passage from Australia. Something is out. All things, this too. We lost several rounds, but won overall at trivia. Looms. I retreat to an uninterrupted sleep. I’ve had sex on this couch. I won’t shit it. It’s going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things.

I never saw Charles again. I hear my brother’s married now. PowerAde tastes different, but familiar. Sometimes I think about those shits, when the night comes. I remain, however, vigilant. There’s plenty of life ahead, despite the hiccups (take THAT, England). The shit is always darkest before the dawn. May god bless your hearts.

I miss the beginning of this story…

Blurred Lines

Tom Petty famously (?) declared that the waiting is the hardest part, but he also said that you don’t know how it feels to be him, so maybe his waiting is different? Granted, when you’re blonde and high in southern California, I’m sure that most things aren’t defined by what the rest of America has deemed the norm. Wait, didn’t he say that coming down was the hardest thing? But he makes free fallin’ sound so great. Whatever. Get a haircut.
The hardest parts are often the most worthwhile (wink). I have little memory of things that have come easily (double wink), but I have little memory period (comma) so there you go. As much as I despise delay, as little merit as I see in patience, especially given the misguided desires and outcomes of many long term investments and strategies (don’t try to tell me we’re playing chess on what is clearly a checkers board), I have to admit that I’m mostly defined by extended difficulties. As such, I’ve found it helpful to notice these times of duress, and in said recognition proclaim to bystanders or piles of dogs or stray garbage that “I must be doing something right.“
Accepting the pushback from life as a challenge has led me to find purpose in the waiting line. Now, while I lack the character and grace of a genius waitress within the metaphorical queues of chaos that frequently test our limits of masochistic indulgences, I still am able to withstand, even enjoy my prolapsed existence between others, sometimes without laughing about how the people behind me are going to deal with my farts.
I went in to the bank the other day (because yes, you can still go in to a bank) and there was a line. The woman ahead of me shifted and sighed and smelled, but it was fine because I had She Sells Sanctuary playing in my head. When it was finally my turn at the window, I banked with a lovely young woman and pocketed some Dum-Dums. Worth it. Later that day I went for some things from the grocery, and wouldn’t you know it, nothing but long lines. Ah, but you’ve forgotten about US magazine (as you probably should have) and its inherent ability to erase time. The traffic through the parking lot was just another in a series of forceful blockades from front row status (the American dream).
In said circumstances, one might think, “Well that’s time I’ll never get back!” But since when do you ever get back time, dumb-ass? The point isn’t to withstand hardship towards a payoff, it’s to find acceptance, appreciation, peace in the middle. I know that sounds like justifying stagnancy, and maybe it is, but so what? You can’t prove to me that an end result really matters.
This evening there's a mixer for one of my new jobs at The Coyote Moon, a decent enough local dive with cheap wells and a seventy-five cent taco night. I decide to go, and am excited to make new friends and show them my drunk and taco. There's a special cocktail created for the event, mixed in a large bowl on a side table, available for any and all to enjoy. Dressed in my blue collar-ado best, I walk over and there’s no punchline

Isolated Baby****ing

I don't want to write this. How can I possibly write this?

There's a phrase I'm going to have to use here... no, you know what, I actually don't have to use the phrase, or word, or made-up word, or whatever fucking horrible sentiment I've decided can be playful enough for me to arrogantly expound towards another questionably humorous, insightful, or even remotely necessary point.
Yes, what is the point? Do I need to have one clearly in mind before I begin? I bet you're wishing that I did about now, and maybe I do. But I also like to discover it along the way. Part of the joy I find in writing these... things, are the epiphanies and opportunities that pop up unexpectedly throughout the neurotic voyage. You never know when the right progression or joyful understanding is going to arrive. Those surprises are often the defining gifts of life.
So that's my attempt at a pleasant introduction that simultaneously compliments the miracle of childbirth and prepares everyone for the babyfucker discussion.


I was recently reminded that I once proclaimed "babyfucker" to be one of the seven worst words in modern usage (http://hencemyselfloathing.blogspot.com/2010/06/new-se7en-dirty-words-and-gay-tangent.html). The problem here is that nobody ever uses that term, because it's too terrible to even mildly consider. Why would we ever say that? The only point I can make is that it's obviously worse than "motherfucker", hence it's placement on the list.
I'll prove it. Imagine an historical figure, someone decent. Let's go with Lincoln. We can all still back him, right? So let's say we uncover some fucked up national treasures (I don't know, like a horse & buggy confession show, or those old-tymey photos maybe?) that prove that Abraham Lincoln had sexual intercourse with his no doubt statuesque building of a mother.

"Aww, fuck man, Lincoln? Really? In the log cabin and everything? Jesus... well, alright."
It would be tough, but we'd have to deal with it, right? Give him the mulligan.
Now, just barely imagine, if you can, that Abraham Lincoln had... intercoursed, a baby.

There aren't enough vampires in the world that you could kill in order to erase a single act of babyfucking.
That's game over, man, for anyone. Even Hitler's stock would go down with some uncovered- I don't even want to say the word anymore. It's that bad of a thing. We would think less of Adolf Hitler if we discovered his propensity for, or even momentary indulgence in... no, babyfucking is the only way to say it.
And how could we possibly think less of Hitler? He's our barometer for ludicrously evil. He's so awful that he's sort of cartoonish now. I guarantee there's been more lampooning of Hitler than actual representation, and I understand why. It still feels good to take the dead piss out of his rotting, mutant-possum-with-the-Se7en-strap-on-fucked corpse (absolutely appropriate).
We love to stick it to him.
It's a bit of a turn on our initial reaction though.

"Who? In Germany? And he's doing what now? Holy shit. Hmm... Jews, huh? My, my my. Let's wait this one out a bit."

That's overly simplistic and not at all a fair representation of what probably happened, but it's rooted in enough truth to make me laugh in my underwear in that playfully anti-Semitic, American way.

But isolationism doesn't work. You can't shut yourself off from the world and expect not to be sucked back into its problems. Sure, you can get a hotel room and close the drapes and ignore texts, but that's not going to stop the Japanese from bombing the shit out of you (with housekeeping knocks, or whatever).
You've got to be involved. You have to go out, meet people, interact, and yes, occasionally make babies.
Because as weird as they are, and as lost as you can get within the existential dilemma of their stares, babies are alright.

Usually.
Hey, even Hitler was a baby, right? And you know what, maybe he was babyfucked. Maybe that's exactly what happens when, that, happens...

You see where the mind goes when it's tucked away from humanity? Jerking off through a haze of troubled thoughts and questionable ethics that are shouted down by your better angels for recognition of the ever-looming optimism inherent in everyday victories and pleasant sights and sounds and strangers, flaunting their simple grace in extended perfection as you're reminded of why the extremes of newborns and Hitler are worth the often muddled middle, regardless of the confusion your analysis of it may bring, because the expansion of life, thought, and community, the greater numbers within the argument towards a greater life, the basic symbolism of meaningful progression through procreation, is always stronger than these babyfucking Nazi agendas.

So I guess you should fuck and vote, or something.
Whatever you want, I shouldn't be making decisions.

There's Nothing Like It

I've been thinking about Colorado a lot lately. The cold, the bitter distance, the ambiguity. I didn't necessarily retreat on a whim, but the escape was meaningful and with certain purpose. I had reached my worst here, and relished the chance to reflect within some far away opportunity. Darkened seasons changed as albums of gothic folk poured over symbolic walks down snowy drives and trans-vaginal interstates of spoiled lives.
That sentence means nothing, but so do the majority of our investments, so lighten up, fuckers.
I remember my brief stint at Squirrel's, a drunken lodge of regulars and irregulars that all shared a common mediocrity reflected in the service I was capable of providing them. Our most consistent customer was the town doctor, or a doctor, as you would call him. I called him "Doc", because I was who I was and you were not.
Do we need to take a moment to understand the state in which I'm attempting to regale such a tale?
Doc's favorite drink was an odd duck. That wasn't the name of it, although that's a sweet fucking drink, mostly for Indian hobos and native tramps.
No, the doctor had a propensity for the hazelnut daiquiri.
Yeah, it's stupid. He was stupid. He was a doctor, and he was stupid.
But he loved it. Your standard daiquiri: rum, lime, sweetener, and some hazelnut flavor - he was all over it like a doctor's leech on a haircut.
I mean, not like crazy all over it. He would come in every day, just after 5, have 2-3 hazelnut daiquiris, just enough to take the razor's edge off the day (he didn't believe in razors), and head home to the wife (Mrs. Dr., I presume)
So it was just a normal thing. It sounds weird, but it wasn't. IT WASN'T, YOU JUDGMENTAL MOTHERFUCKERS!
I got used to it after like a day.
So just around the time I'm getting ready to quit (because the restaurant/bar is called Squirrel's, and I swear to god, let's end this rumor once and for all that I don't have any "standards") the regular bartender pulls me aside. She says to me, she says, "Hey, Doc's coming in for his drink, and we're shit out of hazelnut."
This isn't the way I would have said it, but I didn't say it, did I? Did you see the quotation marks? Go back.
So we all fumble around, and I don't really care, but I want my last check, so I eye the room and haphazardly suggest, "What about hickory?"
Now, I understand that hickory and hazelnut are completely different flavors. Ain't no fucking ballpark neither. However, we were 'allegedly' in a "bind", so I did what I could. We combined hickory flavor, some cinnamon, ginger, rum, lime juice, Splenda, and various other ingredients I'll ask you to mind your own god damn business about, in a glass and prepared it for the local doctor. He walked in just after 5, as expected, and took a seat in his regular chair.
I guess it was more of a stool, but come on, let's get going, right?
Obviously I was forced to serve the bastardized cocktail, and I did so with as little trepidation as necessary. The doctor took his usual sip and paused, purposefully, almost menacingly. I suddenly felt the concern of the bar upon my shoulders.
He looked up at me, his old and wisdom-filled eyes sinking into a depression for which I was ill-prepared at 29 years of age. His sigh was wistful and full of a regret I could never know. His lips smacked in a parched preparation before his sullen eyes met mine.
"Son, this is not a hazelnut daiquiri."
My heart sank. I had failed this man, this town, this life. It didn't matter where life took me from here, I carried with me no sense of satisfaction. As my eyes welled, I struggled to meet his steely gaze.
"Yes sir, you got me."
I knew what came next. I had always known, as we've all always known. There was no escaping it now.
"It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."

He slowly pulled out a gun, and shot me, to death.

SWM, Drunk & Confused...

I can never remember when I’m (perpetually) single if I’m supposed to treat my date or my cock like a Mogwai that could possibly turn into a Gremlin…

That’s the best introduction I could find to the beginning of this conversational journey we’re going to suffer through together. Yes, it’s a bit masturbatory, but so are blogs, and so is dating, as I’m about to explain and then recant before just landing in an ambiguous world of over-thought references and genital allusions, replete with heartfelt judgments and apologies and neurotic attempts at revolutionary optimism through various degrees of relations and this sentence is kind of getting away from me…

This isn’t ‘Nam, there are rules.

-You can’t expose your penis to any bright lights, including flash photography. Apparently it’s some sort of law. Sunlight is by far the worst. That’s right, tanners, you’ve cooked your collective penii to death. If you’re a woman who tans, then I also think of you as having a deep-fried decrepit dangler.

-You can’t expose a date to bright lights because she’ll get distracted. Or maybe it’s a metaphor for keeping her in the dark about who you really are, and the posturing that seems to go along with such activities. I’m more of a night owl anyway (is saying “night owl” redundant? Are there day owls? Is that just an early bird? Look, birds can’t fuck owls, okay? Birds fuck bees, and that’s just the way it is…)

some things will never change…

-You can’t get your penis wet. I know, bros are always saying,

“Man, you just need to get your dick wet!”

But those people are wrong and kind of assholes. That’s not a solution, it’s just something to do. I’ll come back to this.

You just have to be aware of the fact that it leads to multiplication, because moisture is the essence of wetness, and water is the essence of life, and then some other things happen and babies. Then there’ll just be more dicks, because that’s what most of these kids are. They’ve got half-eaten, rotting food in their teeth because they’re unclean, and they want to touch you and lick things, taste things, trying to learn… you don’t need that. Some half animal beast-child putting his hands on you, the cheese dust fingers, with his death breath and apple juice farts…

-You can’t get your date wet, for the same obvious reasons (or serve them apple juice). I know, it seems like it defeats the purpose, but what are you gonna do? Rules are rules, and I’m drunkenly applying the ones from the motion picture Gremlins to this misguided analogy.

This is also a bummer because I always thought that swimming was such a good date activity. You get to see each other close enough to naked, and the man can lift the woman easily, making him feel strong and her feel light. Unfortunately, it’s out.

And I love the ocean.

-Most importantly, you can never feed your penis after midnight. That’s when it becomes some sort of reptilian demon creature that attacks your mother and then you have to stick it in the microwave.

-You certainly can’t feed your date after midnight. Women try not to eat late anyway.

Fine, this one doesn’t really make sense (because the others are iron-clad). I never understood this rule anyway. How are their bodies attuned to their specific time-zone? As far as a date goes, does this include any and all ingestions?

Although I’m sure that many women would love nothing more than to purge on junk food before becoming some kind of monster and going to watch Snow White with her friends. Hell, I know I would.

Don’t buy your junk food at the theater though. The price keeps getting higher, I swear they’re raisinet…

So with the Gremlins rules in effect, you can see how my horizon has been limited. I don’t mean to suggest that the dating scene is this hazardous. Stripe isn’t going to become some sort of metaphor for an evil landing strip afflicted beast of vagina dentata.

You know what, maybe I should end the Gremlins references here…

Howie Mandel is also the voice of my penis.

Obviously I am thoroughly confused by the dating world, as well as the Gremlins world, and the world in general, but let’s just deal with one bit of neurosis at a time, shall we (wait, should we?)

I’m not much for dating.

Jesus, fuck that thought and sentiment and sentence. Who wants to date that guy?

Lots of people, you jerks. Well, not lots. Maybe some, at first, before the harsh truths of reality and practicality sink in. Maybe none. It’s some sort of elephant/rhinoceros hybrid at this point.

To be fair, I’ve never actually been on a proper date, in which I ask a woman with whom I haven’t slept to accompany me and only me to some sort of function(s) with the intention of romantic or sexual pursuit.

That may not be true, but I can’t recall any specific occurrences.

Does that make me the asshole? Usually, but what I’m reaching for is the idea that I just don’t understand serial dating, the search for anyone, playing the odds at that level in the hopes of finding that someone special-enough to grant your entry into the exclusivity of the couples country club (which is exclusive, so don’t tell them that you’re Jewish). I don’t want to belong, I want to believe.

It’s great to have someone, and even better to share your life with as many people and in as many special ways as possible, but there are degrees. There are those incomprehensible interactions that stir your anxieties in the most wonderful way, and knowing that feeling, the awareness of its recurring existence, is enough of an inspiration to keep me in wait. It’s not so much holding out as it is just understanding what’s worth the time and effort.

Let me climb off the high horse of pretension and straddle the motorbike of jealousy for a moment.

I’m sure that the reasoning behind many indulgences in online or even compulsive dating is earnest. There are worse things to spend your time pursuing than love (I’ll never find that picture of Houdini with his keys locked in his car). It’s far too easy to feel loneliness in this friendly, friendly world, and company and community are essential. Whether the caterpillars have hatched within your shit factory or not, it’s worth it to connect. If this is your honest agenda, then I’m actually quite envious of your dedication and progressive endurance to the crusade for a soul-mate or partner. Looking for love, meeting people, enjoying yourself through legitimate interactions… I can’t rightfully shit on those passions like a homeless man behind a gas station.

But is that always the case?

From the most basic glimpses of research I could manage, the majority of online dating site users are women, and the sites with the highest percentage of women members are match-based. These are the sites which require a long and detailed questionnaire, an immediate turn-off for men. Through some sort of mathematical equation, the love nerds formulate a theorem or formula or algorithm (I don’t know, I’m bad at math and science and intimacy) that will prescribe you your ideal mate, rather than allowing you to freely browse the stockyard for the 4H babe you feel that you somehow rightfully deserve.

Again, I really don’t mean to diminish anyone’s attempts, but what I get from this is that the women are at least seeking a potential partner rather than a hook-up.

I don’t understand most people’s agendas, so I’m even more out of my element and sobriety here. But to engage in a system which essentially amounts to scanning your options for acceptable vaginal patronization sounds a bit like a fancier version of masturbation to me (and I don’t just mean autoerotic asphyxiation with a black tie (and a bow tie for your erection (copyrighted))).

If that’s the case, then you’re just paying more money in order to keep dating your penis, which you were already doing, for free. Or maybe you’re dating a fancier version of your hand, or rib I suppose.

This falls into the mindset of just getting your dick wet (this doesn't fall into any mindset). 

I know we like to think that casual sex exists, but it doesn’t. It always means something to someone, and often much more to one than the other, and that’s not fair. You don’t want to be on either end of that ignorance. If you do happen to find yourself there, driven drunkenly against your will by a questionably designated wingman, don’t be the casual one. Heartbreak beats apathy every time.

Don't get me wrong, I'll get more drunk and do things, and everyone may come out the other end just fine. That's another ideal worth remembering. It's arrogant to assume there can't just be casual fun. In fact, I feel that I've often indulged in some enjoyable acts of ribaldry with minimal consequence. I'm just trying to be more mindful of how I really feel, and relate that to the treatment of others, because I've also been on either end of the previously stated ignorance.

But maybe the casual, or preliminary, dating world is all worthwhile. This is how people meet, and I know plenty of amazing couples. The casual can lead to the intimate, it doesn't have to be such a narrow field. It just hasn't revealed its appeal enough to entice me. I want to be knocked out in person, or at least gut punched, and I want the feeling to continue, easily, but that doesn’t mean that I get to judge others for a different approach, one that seems to be proving itself across the globe throughout time.

When I start reading through dating statistics, online or not, I get depressed, for many reasons. Perhaps it’s the basic appliance of science that turns me off…

(Hold on, I suddenly have the urge to simultaneously watch Disney’s Beauty & the Beast and listen to Rage Against the Machine…)

I feel that science can often be an attempt to dilute the magic.

We’ve become spoiled to not only solutions, but immediate ones. Internet dating goes to the next level of dangerously toying with an acceptance of scrolling through people, scanning and computing a mathematical analysis of something that can never lose its awe to our arrogance. I guess we’re all doing that anyway, but I’ll be damned if some computer’s going to best me at recognizing nature’s sorcery.

And I don’t want to hear about being purposefully single in order to stand against over-population or societal pressures. The argument is valid, but also shut up. I don’t want to begrudge anyone’s sincere efforts towards a better world or sense of self and security, but the point isn’t a feeling of superiority. There’s no “winning.” If you’re better than magic, then why do you have diabetes?

Relationships shouldn’t be about figuring out a system by which your satisfactions will be met by the ideal person of your choosing. You have to allow for the wonderful idiosyncrasies of natural attraction, human error, the fuck-ups and fuck-downs and fuck-sideways, if you’ve got the leg strength.

There's no right way. It’s the questions, not the answers; the journey, not the destination.

In which case, I may have to digress and surrender to the concept of honest, frequent, connective human experience as legit. Dating is quite admirable in that sense, through any means.

I don’t mean to offer an answer or judgment or cohesive thought regarding any of this (obviously). This is just food for late-night thought (though not after midnight, somehow). Clearly I’m confused, but maybe that’s what I’m arguing. Knowing shit is overrated. Confusion is incredible. The surrender is often greater than the false power-trip. 

Shit, maybe I'm just a masochist (hence the rules (hence the blog title)). 

You need the sense of wonder for the magic to take hold. It’s truly a question without an answer, like why her or him, what time is it, and are there Gremlin vaginas?

Actually, there may be an answer to some of those, but I don’t want to know them. 

I forget things.

Oh shit, I’m supposed to be on a date right now!

New Job

     Gun Barrel City, Texas is surprisingly limited in its opportunities for gainful employment and understanding of sarcasm. However, I have found a bit of odd work, and I'd now be most pleased to regale you with the story of my first day.

So I answered an ad in the local classifieds about driving a shuttle for a nearby home for the disabled. I say disabled, but what I really mean is special needs, or whichever term gets me in the least amount of trouble, I don't care anymore. We're all in the re-re van together now.
I show up early to inspect my short bus and am pleasantly surprised to discover that it is covered with the characters of Sesame Street: Bert, Ernie, Snuffie, Dopey, Waldo, Atreyu, they're all there, and it's great. This is already the most excited I've ever been about a job. The boss man or Head Orderly (dibs on porn name) takes me through a safety seminar that seems pretty straightforward. It's a small town, so the background check isn't very thorough, which would concern me if I wasn't getting paid. We check the vehicle over and under and go over the route before he takes me in to meet some of the gang.
And what a jolly bunch they were.
First there was Patricia. Patricia is quite large, has gout, and insists upon being called "Pattie", which would make me giggle if I wasn't getting paid (I did anyway). During Patricia's introduction, another large woman approaches, angrily, like a charging rhino in a petting zoo for, well, fat rhinos, apparently. The orderly stops her short, but her explanation must be proclaimed:
"Don't listen to a word she says! I'M PATTY! I'm the only PATTY here! She's a liar!"
I'm a bit put off by all of this, but I need the work, so we move on.
Next up is Ross. Ross is a great kid, funny, self-aware, self-deprecating. He reminds me of a young Dudley from The Royal Tenenbaums, but with more pizazz. He even asks that I refer to him as "special", which is cute and then sad and then uncomfortable because I'm just a mess emotionally.
There's a few other randos who neither frighten nor impress me, so I don't bother with their names or ailments. I'm not one to judge. All I have to do is count and drive. "Everyone on? Good, great, grand, wonderful!"
Not so fast. We forgot about Lester.
Yes, Lester.
The aptly named southerner sits in the back, in a sunbeam reserved for sling-bladers, digging into his toenails with the odd end of a plastic spork. I approach with understandable caution...
"Hey pal, whatcha' got... in there?"
My voice raised on the end, and I could feel the power shift.
He remained quiet.
"So, looks like I may be driving ya. Lester, right?"
"Lester G."
"How's that?"
"There use'ta be 'nother Lester here... use'ta be."
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh..."
I stretched that out into like at least a minute, I swear to God.
"So, Lester G."
It was then that I noticed Lester's activity of choice. He was digging into a bunyun on his foot. One of many.

So we're back in the office, and I'm explaining to Head Orderly (no longer sexy) why I just can't take the job.
"Well, what d'ya mean? What's the problem?"
"What's the problem? WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?" I say, incredulously, prepping my mind to attempt a level of political correctness it has never known...

"The problem is... 2 all beef Patties, Special Ross, and Lester G. pickin' bunyuns on a Sesame Street bus."


And then we just kind of looked at each other...