I'm waiting for 1:00 AM
so I may fall asleep
and dream again that
I have sturdily grown hair
in dowdy strands of grainy
blonde, thick and bristled
around my face,
like a Missouri youth.
I will worry in these dreams
with my hair about what
distresses I might flounder in,
saving the waking-day for
lighter matings, but so
frantically consumed by
broken lyre strings while
I sleep that I hardly notice
the trouble.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Heavenly Piece
so i'm reading Newman,
an old Tractarian,
and he loves God
and has given himself
to the glory of Christ,
and that's fine
but he advocates
celibacy as holy
and those who enjoy
the flesh as somehow
evil, or marked with
the spot of the devil.
i will not be considered
evil because i have sex,
evil because i like sex,
evil because i want sex.
mr. Newman may be in Heaven
enjoying the company of
his distant, lonely God,
but my lord, or force, or power
will embrace me fully
and take me inside,
feeding me into the universe
as we both shake and rattle
to warm jazz and swirl
nonsensically together
like flavored milks mixing.
we will clamour romantic,
erupt robust,
intertwine holy,
and all the evil sex before
will make sense as
the practice for this moment,
this introduction to GOD
and accession to my rightful
place in the confused body
of the eternal and never ending.
and we will never stop this:
our limitless, beautiful tumult,
because Heaven is sex
on a different level
and I'll not let
the confused virgin corpse
of a Tractarian poet
tell me any different.
an old Tractarian,
and he loves God
and has given himself
to the glory of Christ,
and that's fine
but he advocates
celibacy as holy
and those who enjoy
the flesh as somehow
evil, or marked with
the spot of the devil.
i will not be considered
evil because i have sex,
evil because i like sex,
evil because i want sex.
mr. Newman may be in Heaven
enjoying the company of
his distant, lonely God,
but my lord, or force, or power
will embrace me fully
and take me inside,
feeding me into the universe
as we both shake and rattle
to warm jazz and swirl
nonsensically together
like flavored milks mixing.
we will clamour romantic,
erupt robust,
intertwine holy,
and all the evil sex before
will make sense as
the practice for this moment,
this introduction to GOD
and accession to my rightful
place in the confused body
of the eternal and never ending.
and we will never stop this:
our limitless, beautiful tumult,
because Heaven is sex
on a different level
and I'll not let
the confused virgin corpse
of a Tractarian poet
tell me any different.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sorry
I think too loud
and too fast
and come to conclusions in this
frantic freight-train way,
and worried,
want to share how my world
has crumbled
because of my flimsy discoveries.
I'll throw them at you
because that's what I do,
hoping a piece of a discursive musing
will stick with you
and remind you
that I, too,
can be beautiful,
but I'll leave with only
your jagged smirks
and quizzical eyes;
your face drowning
in a glaze,
telling me that
I should have saved
myself the trouble.
and too fast
and come to conclusions in this
frantic freight-train way,
and worried,
want to share how my world
has crumbled
because of my flimsy discoveries.
I'll throw them at you
because that's what I do,
hoping a piece of a discursive musing
will stick with you
and remind you
that I, too,
can be beautiful,
but I'll leave with only
your jagged smirks
and quizzical eyes;
your face drowning
in a glaze,
telling me that
I should have saved
myself the trouble.
Your Rebuttal
my face is gone
from the photos,
scratched away
so there is only you;
your crescent eyes,
your melon-slice smiles,
still there after
i have been erased.
from the photos,
scratched away
so there is only you;
your crescent eyes,
your melon-slice smiles,
still there after
i have been erased.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
What I Wrote in Philosophy Class Today
I'll change hands
to the metal pair,
so that they'll creak
with their rusted gears
And you'll not
want me to touch you
again.
---
Stand fast...my friend
we'll break...on in.
This time...we'll win.
Patience...Again!
You won't take us back alive
You can't take us back alive
We're fine...I guess.
New cross,...old chest.
New scars...this time.
I'mso glad...you're mine!
---
If I hold
you, don't cry.
I want you
to be happy
with me.
If I hold
you, love me.
I want you
to hear my heart
alive in me.
to the metal pair,
so that they'll creak
with their rusted gears
And you'll not
want me to touch you
again.
---
Stand fast...my friend
we'll break...on in.
This time...we'll win.
Patience...Again!
You won't take us back alive
You can't take us back alive
We're fine...I guess.
New cross,...old chest.
New scars...this time.
I'mso glad...you're mine!
---
If I hold
you, don't cry.
I want you
to be happy
with me.
If I hold
you, love me.
I want you
to hear my heart
alive in me.
Horatio; A Response.
He was always
a crunch-corpse,
piled on the sill,
wobbling in the breeze.
He was always
a friend to us,
never buzzing and
never stinging,
never really a threat
at all; he loved us.
Or, rather,
he lived with us.
If there's even
a difference.
a crunch-corpse,
piled on the sill,
wobbling in the breeze.
He was always
a friend to us,
never buzzing and
never stinging,
never really a threat
at all; he loved us.
Or, rather,
he lived with us.
If there's even
a difference.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Glue of Dogs
Your daschund is a horse.
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies:
sleek-look, smooth-coat glue
that whimper-barks on papers,
sweepingly soft rather than sticky;
that avoids the stiff wet-smell while drying,
inedible with a garbage-mouth taste.
That dog-glue would look loud on a page.
Elmer would shake in his New York boots,
but your dog is not a horse.
Your daschund could be a glue-horse though, a glue-dog,
if those janky, short legs should ever break.
Its patter-steps halted by a snap, then art on a page.
“Cats are just smarted than dogs.” – But they make poor glue.
The glue of dogs is loyal and fast drying. Perfect for Man.
The glue-dogs are more precious and immortal in our projects,
with dog-glue I would make a thousand Picaso-esq collages,
and Cory would see them in a gallery and know
the glue-dogs will serve a purpose. They will exists still.
These cohesive canines deserve what horses get!
Dogs would make glue more beautiful than horses ever could!
Los perros harían el pegamento más hermoso!
We love them living, they beg us to love them dead, to use them dead:
thousands of old pets, sticking together, still loved and used!
Yes!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies:
sleek-look, smooth-coat glue
that whimper-barks on papers,
sweepingly soft rather than sticky;
that avoids the stiff wet-smell while drying,
inedible with a garbage-mouth taste.
That dog-glue would look loud on a page.
Elmer would shake in his New York boots,
but your dog is not a horse.
Your daschund could be a glue-horse though, a glue-dog,
if those janky, short legs should ever break.
Its patter-steps halted by a snap, then art on a page.
“Cats are just smarted than dogs.” – But they make poor glue.
The glue of dogs is loyal and fast drying. Perfect for Man.
The glue-dogs are more precious and immortal in our projects,
with dog-glue I would make a thousand Picaso-esq collages,
and Cory would see them in a gallery and know
the glue-dogs will serve a purpose. They will exists still.
These cohesive canines deserve what horses get!
Dogs would make glue more beautiful than horses ever could!
Los perros harían el pegamento más hermoso!
We love them living, they beg us to love them dead, to use them dead:
thousands of old pets, sticking together, still loved and used!
Yes!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A Bad Poem About the Past and Nerves
We were nervous
watching the teacher tell
our parents about us
in class; we watched
through the door
from the safe, sterile hall.
Were we well behaved,
and what would they say
about our grades, and
did we pay enough attention?
Were we right enough,
had we known enough
of the right answers to
show that we had read
and that we had studied?
I get nervous now
when I hear yelling
or crying, especially women,
and I don't remember much
of school or childhood.
I don't remember much
of anything then.
watching the teacher tell
our parents about us
in class; we watched
through the door
from the safe, sterile hall.
Were we well behaved,
and what would they say
about our grades, and
did we pay enough attention?
Were we right enough,
had we known enough
of the right answers to
show that we had read
and that we had studied?
I get nervous now
when I hear yelling
or crying, especially women,
and I don't remember much
of school or childhood.
I don't remember much
of anything then.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
15 Minutes, 10/9
(a twenty something male sits in a room reading a book taking notes. another twenty something enters excitedly. they are friends.)
I've got it!
I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you today?
What?
Nothing. What are you so excited about?
Just that I've finally got it. I've figured it out.
And what is it that you've figured out.
I know what women want!
I doubt that with every fiber of my being, but I'll bite. What do women want.
Well, no. There's a whole story thing. But I know now!
Okay, okay. What it is?
(the excited one stars to pace.)
Okay, so I'm walking around campus today, right?
Yeah?
And I come up on this skinny, lanky hipster kid. But he's not your run of the mill hipster kid. He's wearing some early nineties bicycle hat and has on these damn-near elbow length bicycle gloves. I should also point out he was on, or, rather, straddling his vintage looking bike.
A bicycle hipster?
Yes!
Okay?
No, but he was talking to a hipster chick! She had on the skinny jeans, the flats, the whole deal, right? But I could tell by the way that they were talking that this bicycle-hipster guy was into this girl, like he wanted her and whatnot.
Right.
Right. But he's got this weird timid thing going on. It's like he's playing shy or aloof so she'll notice him more or something.
Like ignoring her?
Not exactly, but making her push the action. And then it hit me.
What women want?
Yes! And it's not that. This bicycle hipster guy is obviously into this girl. Like, they're friends or whatever now, but you can just tell the way a guy will talk to a girl what he's thinking about. But he wasn't doing anything with that.
Just sort of languidly chatting it up?
Right! Man, that is not how anything happens. The funny part was that she was obviously into him as well. I mean, you can just see these things. But nothing was happening. They should have been setting up a date, or holding hands, or...shit I don't know, making out or something. But nothing was happening.
I follow...
So you can't just sit back with ladies. I've been doing that my whole life. I've got the cute, playful act down. I've got the patent. But there has to be a follow up. With girls I'm always worried about coming on too strong and seeming like an ass.
Isn't there a middle ground?
Yes! There is! And it's so obvious. You can let a girl know you're into her, sort of drive the action, without being a forward crazy jerk. You can still be playful and cutesy...
Thank God
...without just letting all this potential sit there. There is nothing wrong letting a girl know you're into her want want to get to know her better; physically, mentally, or whatever. People like that. I like that. You have to show interest. Or it goes no where.
And women want this?
Well they want action. Everyone wants action, but if a guy acts he's got something of an advantage I think. And without action, I mean, no one is getting laid.
And that's no good.
(the excited one sits down. he is tired from being so animated.)
Not at all. I'm just glad I've realized this before it was too late, you know? I could have been married by know. I think normal girls, the really worthwhile people even, are going to be a little timid.
No, no. I agree. Forward girls, at least in my humble experience, tend to be a little insane. Lots of fun, but lots of crazy.
Now that I've got the plan, man, all I've got to do is put it in action.
Who's your first target.
Target's a harsh word, I don't intend to shoot anybody. But, since you asked, it's Jamie. I think I'll talk to her.
Nice choice. Godspeed. Now, if you'll excuse me I must get back to my Malcolm X paper.
Well I will leave you too it. I gots a lady to talk to
(the excited one stands up and walks out of the room. the one with the paper raises his fist and calls after.)
Fight the power!
I've got it!
I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you today?
What?
Nothing. What are you so excited about?
Just that I've finally got it. I've figured it out.
And what is it that you've figured out.
I know what women want!
I doubt that with every fiber of my being, but I'll bite. What do women want.
Well, no. There's a whole story thing. But I know now!
Okay, okay. What it is?
(the excited one stars to pace.)
Okay, so I'm walking around campus today, right?
Yeah?
And I come up on this skinny, lanky hipster kid. But he's not your run of the mill hipster kid. He's wearing some early nineties bicycle hat and has on these damn-near elbow length bicycle gloves. I should also point out he was on, or, rather, straddling his vintage looking bike.
A bicycle hipster?
Yes!
Okay?
No, but he was talking to a hipster chick! She had on the skinny jeans, the flats, the whole deal, right? But I could tell by the way that they were talking that this bicycle-hipster guy was into this girl, like he wanted her and whatnot.
Right.
Right. But he's got this weird timid thing going on. It's like he's playing shy or aloof so she'll notice him more or something.
Like ignoring her?
Not exactly, but making her push the action. And then it hit me.
What women want?
Yes! And it's not that. This bicycle hipster guy is obviously into this girl. Like, they're friends or whatever now, but you can just tell the way a guy will talk to a girl what he's thinking about. But he wasn't doing anything with that.
Just sort of languidly chatting it up?
Right! Man, that is not how anything happens. The funny part was that she was obviously into him as well. I mean, you can just see these things. But nothing was happening. They should have been setting up a date, or holding hands, or...shit I don't know, making out or something. But nothing was happening.
I follow...
So you can't just sit back with ladies. I've been doing that my whole life. I've got the cute, playful act down. I've got the patent. But there has to be a follow up. With girls I'm always worried about coming on too strong and seeming like an ass.
Isn't there a middle ground?
Yes! There is! And it's so obvious. You can let a girl know you're into her, sort of drive the action, without being a forward crazy jerk. You can still be playful and cutesy...
Thank God
...without just letting all this potential sit there. There is nothing wrong letting a girl know you're into her want want to get to know her better; physically, mentally, or whatever. People like that. I like that. You have to show interest. Or it goes no where.
And women want this?
Well they want action. Everyone wants action, but if a guy acts he's got something of an advantage I think. And without action, I mean, no one is getting laid.
And that's no good.
(the excited one sits down. he is tired from being so animated.)
Not at all. I'm just glad I've realized this before it was too late, you know? I could have been married by know. I think normal girls, the really worthwhile people even, are going to be a little timid.
No, no. I agree. Forward girls, at least in my humble experience, tend to be a little insane. Lots of fun, but lots of crazy.
Now that I've got the plan, man, all I've got to do is put it in action.
Who's your first target.
Target's a harsh word, I don't intend to shoot anybody. But, since you asked, it's Jamie. I think I'll talk to her.
Nice choice. Godspeed. Now, if you'll excuse me I must get back to my Malcolm X paper.
Well I will leave you too it. I gots a lady to talk to
(the excited one stands up and walks out of the room. the one with the paper raises his fist and calls after.)
Fight the power!
Liprings
I don't like liprings.
I've been dazzled by the expert way
that eyebrowrings glare off shining faces
and bounce down to the eyes to substantiate
in even the longest of stares and blankest
self aware beauty into a warm capture-look.
But I don't like liprings.
I've been turned-on by the way
belly-bottonrings dangle or shine
their majesty unto torsos, highlighting
the pure sex in the center of gravity,
damning my attention to lusty intention.
But I don't like liprings
I've seen the husk of protesters
turned glamours artist by a nosering,
adding senseless class and old nobility,
Weighting a face-line posture with sparkle
and shamelessly becoming a fetish.
But I don't like liprings.
There's something unbecoming
about kissing a piece of tackle.
I've been dazzled by the expert way
that eyebrowrings glare off shining faces
and bounce down to the eyes to substantiate
in even the longest of stares and blankest
self aware beauty into a warm capture-look.
But I don't like liprings.
I've been turned-on by the way
belly-bottonrings dangle or shine
their majesty unto torsos, highlighting
the pure sex in the center of gravity,
damning my attention to lusty intention.
But I don't like liprings
I've seen the husk of protesters
turned glamours artist by a nosering,
adding senseless class and old nobility,
Weighting a face-line posture with sparkle
and shamelessly becoming a fetish.
But I don't like liprings.
There's something unbecoming
about kissing a piece of tackle.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
15 Minutes, 9/7
(a man in his mid-thirties enters a living room where a teen in watching t.v.)
Did you find a date yet?
What? What do you mean?
Eve told me. Did you find someone to go with yet?
What exactly did Aunt Eve tell you?
She told me about the prom. You really ought to go. It might seem silly now, but as the years wear on these things get more important. You think about them, you know?
No. Why would she tell you?
Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about Eve. Get a date.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver. This always happens. Let me just do this my way.
First off, watch your mouth. Second, no.
No what?
I don’t like your way. Your way’s no fun. Go find a date and go to your senior prom.
Please, could just leave me alone. Just this once. I don’t want to go to prom. Really. It’s stupid. I don’t like the music, I don’t like to dance, I don’t really like the people I go to school with so I really just don’t want to go.
You just can’t find a date, can you?
Tarver, please!
What? I was ugly AND unpopular in high school. I still managed to snag a date to both junior and senior prom though. I even got laid.
Should I clap? What do you want from me? This isn’t a big deal. Just stay out.
Look, you can’t fool me. If you were that pissed you would have ran off to your room by now. You’re still here pretended to be angry at me, though, so it’s obvious you want my advice with the ladies. That’s fine. Your Aunt Eve is a beautiful lady that I happened to trick into loving me. I have the secrets, big guy.
(the teen turns off the t.v. and fully addresses the man.)
Would you like me to leave? Would that send the right message? I could go slam my door and yell or something, but I thought I would try to present myself as calm and serious, but that doesn’t work with you. I’m not going to prom, okay? That’s that.
That’s that. Okay.
(the teen turns the t.v back on. The man waits a moment before continuing.)
Hey, whose that cute girl with the short hair your bring over here? Ask her.
Elizabeth? She’s my friend, like one of my best. I’m not going to ask her to go to a stupid dance that she probably thinks the same about as I do.
Fine. Yeah, you’re probably right. What do I know? You know…yeah. Proms are sort of silly. You just dress up to dance and have a good time. I mean, nobody likes looking good and creating memories. And who would even want to go to a stupid after-party, because who honestly stays at the dance the whole time? And really, who wouldn’t want to be let off the hook from their curfew for a night because of a special occasion that a certain uncle finds vital to a young person’s life. I mean, really? YOU. ARE. STUPID.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver.
(the teen storms to his feet and out of the room)
Where are you taking that sailor’s mouth to?
(leaving, the teen answers.)
I’m getting the phone.
(the man answers to himself, smiling.)
God damn right you are.
Did you find a date yet?
What? What do you mean?
Eve told me. Did you find someone to go with yet?
What exactly did Aunt Eve tell you?
She told me about the prom. You really ought to go. It might seem silly now, but as the years wear on these things get more important. You think about them, you know?
No. Why would she tell you?
Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about Eve. Get a date.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver. This always happens. Let me just do this my way.
First off, watch your mouth. Second, no.
No what?
I don’t like your way. Your way’s no fun. Go find a date and go to your senior prom.
Please, could just leave me alone. Just this once. I don’t want to go to prom. Really. It’s stupid. I don’t like the music, I don’t like to dance, I don’t really like the people I go to school with so I really just don’t want to go.
You just can’t find a date, can you?
Tarver, please!
What? I was ugly AND unpopular in high school. I still managed to snag a date to both junior and senior prom though. I even got laid.
Should I clap? What do you want from me? This isn’t a big deal. Just stay out.
Look, you can’t fool me. If you were that pissed you would have ran off to your room by now. You’re still here pretended to be angry at me, though, so it’s obvious you want my advice with the ladies. That’s fine. Your Aunt Eve is a beautiful lady that I happened to trick into loving me. I have the secrets, big guy.
(the teen turns off the t.v. and fully addresses the man.)
Would you like me to leave? Would that send the right message? I could go slam my door and yell or something, but I thought I would try to present myself as calm and serious, but that doesn’t work with you. I’m not going to prom, okay? That’s that.
That’s that. Okay.
(the teen turns the t.v back on. The man waits a moment before continuing.)
Hey, whose that cute girl with the short hair your bring over here? Ask her.
Elizabeth? She’s my friend, like one of my best. I’m not going to ask her to go to a stupid dance that she probably thinks the same about as I do.
Fine. Yeah, you’re probably right. What do I know? You know…yeah. Proms are sort of silly. You just dress up to dance and have a good time. I mean, nobody likes looking good and creating memories. And who would even want to go to a stupid after-party, because who honestly stays at the dance the whole time? And really, who wouldn’t want to be let off the hook from their curfew for a night because of a special occasion that a certain uncle finds vital to a young person’s life. I mean, really? YOU. ARE. STUPID.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver.
(the teen storms to his feet and out of the room)
Where are you taking that sailor’s mouth to?
(leaving, the teen answers.)
I’m getting the phone.
(the man answers to himself, smiling.)
God damn right you are.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
The Mercenaries
We clutch plastic guns,
belly-crawling on beige carpet
draped in our father's flannel,
with underwear on our heads.
Invisible villains are killed
as we whisper through the enemy lines
invading the kitchen cabinets.
Later, we capture the laundry room.
The mission is accomplished;
we belly-crawl down the hall.
Passing Tiffany's bedroom,
we reach homebase.
We reload our weapons,
sharing the orange darts.
We agree on new emergencies
with underwear on our heads.
belly-crawling on beige carpet
draped in our father's flannel,
with underwear on our heads.
Invisible villains are killed
as we whisper through the enemy lines
invading the kitchen cabinets.
Later, we capture the laundry room.
The mission is accomplished;
we belly-crawl down the hall.
Passing Tiffany's bedroom,
we reach homebase.
We reload our weapons,
sharing the orange darts.
We agree on new emergencies
with underwear on our heads.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Things I Remember from the Dreams Where I Die
The faint taste of oranges whisper-hushes its way into conversations; I fail to realize the problems with this. Forgive the weakness of my concentration.
You. You are always there. You have a trip-wire tongue and will never kiss me. I've tried to save you many times; rarely am I successful.
The melting kelly green of hyper grass that grows only where I cannot imagine concrete.
A tall, elderly man who is my grandfather, but is nameless and so frighteningly vague.
The empty sense of nobility in self-destruction drapes itself around my shoulders.
Falling for dangerous lengths of time is typical.
Tears. Genuine tears without hyperventilation; just loss. Always loss.
And that ironic waking satisfaction.
You. You are always there. You have a trip-wire tongue and will never kiss me. I've tried to save you many times; rarely am I successful.
The melting kelly green of hyper grass that grows only where I cannot imagine concrete.
A tall, elderly man who is my grandfather, but is nameless and so frighteningly vague.
The empty sense of nobility in self-destruction drapes itself around my shoulders.
Falling for dangerous lengths of time is typical.
Tears. Genuine tears without hyperventilation; just loss. Always loss.
And that ironic waking satisfaction.
15 minutes, 9/1 (2)
(two men in their early twenties are in a car driving to a theatre to catch a movie. they are close friends.)
What time does the movie start, again?
9:30. But I want to be there by 9.
No, totally. I hate missing the previews.
Thank you! Christ, it is so annoying when people can't get to a movie on time. Let alone when they drag me into what ever evil plan they have for settling their blood-lust for being late.
You know, I don't even like to miss the fun little trivia slides. There are all so outdated, but it's still fun. That, and all of the advertisements are hilarious. God, that dentist one is too funny. The apple's teeth in that cartoon are way too damn huge.
Yeah, no fruit should have teeth that big.
Or teeth at all, but I'm willing to digress for a good time.
You know you always made me late to movies?
Oh God. Don't say it, please.
What?
I know where this is going, and I'm going to just delete it now before it even gets out into the world.
Okay, grand poo bah, what was I going to say?
You were going to mention, for what would undoubtedly be marked as the near-infinite time, how Vera would make you late to movies.
So?
So? So? It's played out my friend. You guys broke up three months ago. I think the time for peppering you friends with bitter remember-rants has long since passed there.
So I can't make a relevant comment about the conversation we're having. Thank you for editing my speaking habits, I've been meaning to have less control over my motor functions lately.
Suck my cock. I just don't want to hear about Vera. And it's because I'm a good friend.
You ask me for oral sex because you're a good friend, too?
I see how pissed thinking about her makes you. And since you can't call her up and brake up with her again, there really is no reason to bring her up at all. It sucks for me to hear about it, and it sucks for you to think about, so just don't bring it up.
Shit still bothers me, though.
Why? Just let it go. She is out of the picture.
Not entirely.
What do you mean? I thought you guys were done-zo?
Were are, she's just not out of the picture.
Explain to me this picture, because with as much as you complain about Our Lady V, it could be an interesting portrait.
I mean I still see her around. She's friends with all of my friends. She unavoidable.
Okay.
Okay. And we talk sometimes.
Okay. And?
And what? I'm trying to be friendly. There's nothing wrong with that.
You guys are sleeping together aren't you?
What?
You're sleeping with her again, right?
We're not together or anything.
But you are having sex.
Perchance.
Hell, man. You are a walking contradiction.
How so, Mr. Moral High Ground?
Please. It's not like there's anything inherently wrong with what you're doing. You're just a dumb ass for doing it and you know why.
Enlighten me.
Because you hated that relationship. I like sex as much as the next guy, but I'm not an emo whiny ass like you. I can see it now. You're going to mistake all the wonderful sex with your ex as this crazy idea that things might work out again. You're an idiot and you're torturing yourself.
What makes you think it wouldn't work out?
It had a shot. A long one if I remember right. And you complained your way through that. Do yourself a favor and stop living in your fantasy world where revisiting old flames will somehow develop into this ridiculous fairytale that you somehow passed over the first time.
People change.
Not likely.
What time does the movie start, again?
9:30. But I want to be there by 9.
No, totally. I hate missing the previews.
Thank you! Christ, it is so annoying when people can't get to a movie on time. Let alone when they drag me into what ever evil plan they have for settling their blood-lust for being late.
You know, I don't even like to miss the fun little trivia slides. There are all so outdated, but it's still fun. That, and all of the advertisements are hilarious. God, that dentist one is too funny. The apple's teeth in that cartoon are way too damn huge.
Yeah, no fruit should have teeth that big.
Or teeth at all, but I'm willing to digress for a good time.
You know you always made me late to movies?
Oh God. Don't say it, please.
What?
I know where this is going, and I'm going to just delete it now before it even gets out into the world.
Okay, grand poo bah, what was I going to say?
You were going to mention, for what would undoubtedly be marked as the near-infinite time, how Vera would make you late to movies.
So?
So? So? It's played out my friend. You guys broke up three months ago. I think the time for peppering you friends with bitter remember-rants has long since passed there.
So I can't make a relevant comment about the conversation we're having. Thank you for editing my speaking habits, I've been meaning to have less control over my motor functions lately.
Suck my cock. I just don't want to hear about Vera. And it's because I'm a good friend.
You ask me for oral sex because you're a good friend, too?
I see how pissed thinking about her makes you. And since you can't call her up and brake up with her again, there really is no reason to bring her up at all. It sucks for me to hear about it, and it sucks for you to think about, so just don't bring it up.
Shit still bothers me, though.
Why? Just let it go. She is out of the picture.
Not entirely.
What do you mean? I thought you guys were done-zo?
Were are, she's just not out of the picture.
Explain to me this picture, because with as much as you complain about Our Lady V, it could be an interesting portrait.
I mean I still see her around. She's friends with all of my friends. She unavoidable.
Okay.
Okay. And we talk sometimes.
Okay. And?
And what? I'm trying to be friendly. There's nothing wrong with that.
You guys are sleeping together aren't you?
What?
You're sleeping with her again, right?
We're not together or anything.
But you are having sex.
Perchance.
Hell, man. You are a walking contradiction.
How so, Mr. Moral High Ground?
Please. It's not like there's anything inherently wrong with what you're doing. You're just a dumb ass for doing it and you know why.
Enlighten me.
Because you hated that relationship. I like sex as much as the next guy, but I'm not an emo whiny ass like you. I can see it now. You're going to mistake all the wonderful sex with your ex as this crazy idea that things might work out again. You're an idiot and you're torturing yourself.
What makes you think it wouldn't work out?
It had a shot. A long one if I remember right. And you complained your way through that. Do yourself a favor and stop living in your fantasy world where revisiting old flames will somehow develop into this ridiculous fairytale that you somehow passed over the first time.
People change.
Not likely.
15 minutes, 9/1
(two older teens are in a bedroom staring at an open lap-top at a desk. a boy is sitting in the desk's chair while a girl looks over his shoulder.)
No, this is stupid. I can't make her spin clockwise, damn it.
Calm down. Just move something in front of the screen.
(she waves her hand in front of the screen.)
See, clockwise. Okay....okay, yeah she just switched back to counter-clockwise.
I can't. She won't change for me. I can't believe I can't make the ballerina spin the other way.
Maybe you just have to relax your eyes, like one of those hidden picture dealies.
Is that what you're doing?
No, not really. I'm just sort of telling my brain to switch her around.
Why can't I do that?
Why are you so worried about how the ballerina is spinning?
It's a test thing. A right brain vs. left brain test. If you see the ballerina spinning counter-clockwise then you're left brain, and if she spins clockwise then you're right brain.
What if you see her doing both?
I can't get her to switch. I'm left brained. This is not right.
Why are you worried about the side of your brain? Just go with the flow.
No, see, it's not like that. I'm left brained, but left brainers completely go against who I am.
Like an enemy sort of thing? Oh no!
No, I'm serious. Here, right here. It says that left brained people are more logic oriented, can see the details, focused.
Those are nice.
Yeah, but the right brained people are described as feeling, emotional, creative, big-picture oriented. I always saw myself as a right brain person.
I guess that makes me a centrist. Well, buck up. It's not the end of the world. Not yet, anywho, that's 2012.
Why can't I make her spin...
Just relax. All you have to do is change your life plans. Listen, just stop writing poetry, stop drawing those cartoons you do, and just pick up engineering and statistics. This way you can actually have a fulfilling career that does something for society AND will pay you a decent wage. Win-win, homeboy.
That's horrifying.
(he closes the computer and leaves the computer desk.)
I mean, I know what I'm into. I'm creative. Artistic. Right?
Sure.
I can be an artsy type. That's who I am. That's who I've always been.
That's the spirit, tiger.
Besides, no I think I'm right here. That's just one test.
It WAS on a news site. A BRITISH news site. They are pretty prim and proper with their reporting.
Yeah, but millions of people probably did the same test. And who knows whether or not it's even accurate? It's the Internet, after all.
Yeah, but the Internet is pretty much the one collected spot for all of human knowledge and experience.
Oh, God. I'm really not meant to be an artist am I?
I have the feeling this is about more than just the ballerina.
My mom is thinking about sending me to State.
But she said you could go to the institute. I thought that was a done deal?
It was, I thought.
But State has NO creative writing program. Like, at all. And why wouldn't she send you to Tech? It's right there. Tech even has a respectable English department, and I say that unbiasedly though proudly of my future Alma-mater.
I don't know. I was excited. Everything was good. The Institute was here, you'd be at Tech, we could still hang out. I could stay at home. I don't know what happened. I think it has something to do with "life experience" or something. She's putting me into a dorm.
That, all respect to your mother, is bullshit. You don't need a different area code or zip code for 'life experience.' You already got into the Institute, right? Just go. That's all you've been talking about since, literally, sixth grade.
I can't do that to her. She's my mom. And she's paying for it. I, honestly, have no leverage.
But you can talk to her for Christ sakes. This was your thing.
I know. I know. I don't know what's going on any more. Everything is dying.
No, this is stupid. I can't make her spin clockwise, damn it.
Calm down. Just move something in front of the screen.
(she waves her hand in front of the screen.)
See, clockwise. Okay....okay, yeah she just switched back to counter-clockwise.
I can't. She won't change for me. I can't believe I can't make the ballerina spin the other way.
Maybe you just have to relax your eyes, like one of those hidden picture dealies.
Is that what you're doing?
No, not really. I'm just sort of telling my brain to switch her around.
Why can't I do that?
Why are you so worried about how the ballerina is spinning?
It's a test thing. A right brain vs. left brain test. If you see the ballerina spinning counter-clockwise then you're left brain, and if she spins clockwise then you're right brain.
What if you see her doing both?
I can't get her to switch. I'm left brained. This is not right.
Why are you worried about the side of your brain? Just go with the flow.
No, see, it's not like that. I'm left brained, but left brainers completely go against who I am.
Like an enemy sort of thing? Oh no!
No, I'm serious. Here, right here. It says that left brained people are more logic oriented, can see the details, focused.
Those are nice.
Yeah, but the right brained people are described as feeling, emotional, creative, big-picture oriented. I always saw myself as a right brain person.
I guess that makes me a centrist. Well, buck up. It's not the end of the world. Not yet, anywho, that's 2012.
Why can't I make her spin...
Just relax. All you have to do is change your life plans. Listen, just stop writing poetry, stop drawing those cartoons you do, and just pick up engineering and statistics. This way you can actually have a fulfilling career that does something for society AND will pay you a decent wage. Win-win, homeboy.
That's horrifying.
(he closes the computer and leaves the computer desk.)
I mean, I know what I'm into. I'm creative. Artistic. Right?
Sure.
I can be an artsy type. That's who I am. That's who I've always been.
That's the spirit, tiger.
Besides, no I think I'm right here. That's just one test.
It WAS on a news site. A BRITISH news site. They are pretty prim and proper with their reporting.
Yeah, but millions of people probably did the same test. And who knows whether or not it's even accurate? It's the Internet, after all.
Yeah, but the Internet is pretty much the one collected spot for all of human knowledge and experience.
Oh, God. I'm really not meant to be an artist am I?
I have the feeling this is about more than just the ballerina.
My mom is thinking about sending me to State.
But she said you could go to the institute. I thought that was a done deal?
It was, I thought.
But State has NO creative writing program. Like, at all. And why wouldn't she send you to Tech? It's right there. Tech even has a respectable English department, and I say that unbiasedly though proudly of my future Alma-mater.
I don't know. I was excited. Everything was good. The Institute was here, you'd be at Tech, we could still hang out. I could stay at home. I don't know what happened. I think it has something to do with "life experience" or something. She's putting me into a dorm.
That, all respect to your mother, is bullshit. You don't need a different area code or zip code for 'life experience.' You already got into the Institute, right? Just go. That's all you've been talking about since, literally, sixth grade.
I can't do that to her. She's my mom. And she's paying for it. I, honestly, have no leverage.
But you can talk to her for Christ sakes. This was your thing.
I know. I know. I don't know what's going on any more. Everything is dying.
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