Three Naked Dolls, One Melted With A Lighter Day!

You're not sure what you can say about it. It's not exactly offensive. Not necessarily sexual. But it is really creepy for a boss to create a desk display comprised of three naked Barbie knockoff dolls, one of them with her left side apparently having been melted with a lighter, as it is now covered in black and beige ripples where the dripping plastic dried.

They're not in any sort of sexual position. Just standing side-by-side on the edge of the desk, the first thing you see when you come into his office. And their arms are up in the air and they're kind of kicking their legs out. It just looks like they're walking someplace, nude (and severely burned), and they just saw a friend they're really excited to see. They're shouting hello.

When you went in this morning, your boss alerted you to the new addition to the dolls. It was a little toy guitar leaning against one of them. He said, "See? They're a band."

Happy Three Naked Dolls, One Melted With A Lighter Day!

Cool As Meg Day!

You have seven hundred dollars in cash rolled up in your pocket and some red lipstick on your lips. You've got this guy in this building that can only be reached after three AM and you're gonna reach him. You once fired a gun at a tree, once pointed a gun at a face, and once went out and bought a gun, but you never hurt nobody. You have a secret that sometimes keeps you awake for a week. You look best in leather or corduroy, nothing in between. And you drink all the time.

Meg can say all this about herself. But Meg can also say that she doesn't have bone marrow cancer. So you'll never be as cool as Meg, Cancer Bones.

Happy Cool As Meg Day!

Go To Court Day!

Today, you should stand trial. You will have a lawyer, as will your accuser. The judge will for the most part appear to side with the plaintiff. At least until a surprise witness takes the stand.

The surprise witness will be an ex who tried to kill you just a week prior. She is a woman who demanded from behind the steel of a gun that you either summon whatever is necessary to love her, or meet your maker. Since you were already facing the trial of your life, you'd considered a bullet to your brow a sweet relief. You asked her to pull the trigger, but she couldn't go through with it. Instead, she dropped the gun at your feet and walked downstairs to sleep on your couch. She was gone when you woke up the following morning. Considering all of this, it will be quite a shock when she takes the stand and perjures herself to safe your skin.

Following her testimony, many will murmur from their seats. Some will jump to their feet and shout at the judge. The judge will say overruled and order. You and the surprise witness will stare into each other's eyes from across the room, the same very vague smirk on both your faces. Today will be the last time you see her for six years. She will be the last person to surprise you.

Happy Go To Court Day!

You Are Too In Love To Land This Plane Day!

Don't sweat it. Everyone appreciates you stepping up to the plate, what with the entire crew having been murdered by the O'Hare Strangler and all (HE'S STILL ON THE PLANE SOMEWHERE!). But seriously, go back to your seat so you can sigh over her perfume on your sweater without having to pull on a throttle.

Seriously, good effort. But no one ever crash landed in the middle of the field while wearing a big silly grin. And pointing to all the clouds and saying things like, "That one looks like Sharon, but not as cute" and "That one looks like Sharon, but Sharon's eyes are prettier" and "There, that one looks just like Sharon, but Sharon's hair is brown, not white," well that pretty much just freaked the flight attendants way the fuck out. Oh and by the way, ground control responded. They couldn't get Sharon on the phone for you so that you could tell her how lucky you were to enjoy the love of such a wonderful woman for the brief time you shared. And no, they will not keep trying.

Anyway, we understand that you flew fighters in Enduring Freedom and all, but apparently there's a guy in coach who used to drive a forklift at UPS. We all took a vote and we're gonna go with him. His head's not up in the clouds, excuse the pun.

Happy You Are Too In Love To Land This Plane Day!

Beer And Some Songs Day!

Orange light on orange hair on orange beer. Your orange hand is in his orange hand. You're on a bench and some songs are pretty perfect considering the color of everything. Everything is warmer than it is outside.

"Warm."

He lets go of your orange hand and puts his arm around your shoulders and rubs some heat into your bicep and you realize he thinks you just gave him an order. You don't retract it. A lot of songs are about people who are lost or who are looking for someone they lost but some songs are about a perfect little moment.

"A memory."

He smiles at you, awaiting your story. You sip your beer to tell him you don't have one. An hour in bed that must have lasted a lifetime. A glance stolen at a dinner that must have caught an entire life's tale. A kiss on a cheek because the lips must have been forbidden. They write songs about memories that don't fit into memories.

"Big fat and shapeless spilling out all over everything and they try all they can to pull it all back into tupperware containers but it just keeps dripping over the edge before they can get the lid to snap shut so they have no choice but to stuff it into something that has no corners or bottom or top like a song."

Now he's just staring at you. Kiss him.

Happy Beer And Some Songs Day!

Lisa Digs Girls Day!

14 year old field hockey star Lisa Maldonado does not reserve her enthusiasm only for autumn sport.

"I love women," says Maldonado while adjusting a shin guard in the Grover Cleveland High School girls' locker room. This Decatur, IL freshman was handed a Varsity letter the first day of summer tryouts, six weeks before she would even set foot in her first high school classroom. "The way they walk, the way they laugh. Why tell a joke if there isn't a woman within earshot to laugh at it."

Maldonado first demonstrated her athletic starpower when she was a seven year old halfback in her local community Y girl's soccer league. Her former soccer coach, Nancy Walden, was stunned by her ability to weave and pivot through the field. "Give this chick a ball and tell her to cross Times Square on a sunny Saturday afternoon and she'll make it without so much as brushing a stranger's shirtcuff. She's a motherfucking ghost."

Maldonado bristles at such talk. "Ghost? This game is a collaboration. A matching and pairing of wits and physical prowess amongst some of the most beautiful and charming young women you'll ever meet. I don't just float past them. With every turn and swipe and pivot, I relish their essences. I taste their persons."

But it wouldn't be until someone gave her a stick that destiny would shine in neon lights. In middle school, the only thing keeping Maldonado from going to Interscholastic Field Hockey Nationals was her school's decision to waive consideration of their Field Hockey program for national participation. "We didn't have the money to go for Field Hockey," said former principal Terry Holmes, whose dismissal followed a local newspaper's revelation that the town's star athlete was being held back from national recognition due to lack of foresight on the part of school administrators.

"We could only pay dues for three sports programs to be considered for Nationals," Holmes was quoted in that article. "Middle school field hockey just never produced any standouts before."

Maldonado's parents moved two towns over in order for their daughter to attend Grover Cleveland, a high school with a long tradition of propelling their athletes beyond local competition. "I feel very lucky to be here at Grover Cleveland," says Maldonado. "Everyone here has been so supportive. And my teammates are a delight. When they pass the ball my way, God, it's like a first kiss every single time."

She adds, "I met a girl the other night, a goaltender for West Catholic. I scored three points on her and we went and got tacos after the game. I can't get her out of my head. Keep your fingers crossed."

Maldonado scoffs at the question of whether her boundless affection for girls who share the field with her might come between her and a win. "Please," she says. "The better I play, the more I demonstrate my respect for my opponents and teammates. If I ever held back, I wouldn't be able to look these girls in the eye. And to not be able to look into those beautiful brown, blue, green and hazel eyes day after day, I'd open up my throat before succumbing to such a fate."

She adds, "That girl I had the tacos with, her name's Lisa too. Is that awesome?"

While Grover Cleveland is coming into the end of the season with a 9 and 6 record, Maldonado has already surpassed league records for scoring. By spring, she'll know whether she'll be playing in the National tournement next fall. Though most in the know consider her a guaranteed pick.

"We'll see," Maldonado shrugs. "I just wanna keep playing. I wanna run down that field, rushing into the thicket of beautiful exposed knee and firey autumn cheekbone until it ingests me and digests me and sleeps."

Happy Lisa Digs Girls Day!

Girl On Horseback Day!

"Can't we talk about this another time?" she said.

"You say that every time I bring it up," you said. "Then you jump on your horse and go riding for hours and hours and then you come back and say you've strained your knee again and you need to sit in the bath."

You didn't ask her where she goes riding to. You're not ready. Just then, Jolson kicked up some mud.

"Please, honey," she said. "I can't just hop into the saddle and then keep him standing still like this while we dissect our relationship. He'll never be ready for the horse show."

"Interesting word choice," you said. "No one ever dissects what isn't already dead." That was good. It was quick and she was caught off guard. Nice. "Is that what we are? Just a dead frog floating in some smelly formaldehyde waiting to be torn apart by some high school biology students?" All right, that was too much.

"I have to ride. What is it? What do you want to know?"

You looked into her eyes, then into Jolson's. There was much more comfort in Jolson's.

"Is it over?" you asked Jolson.

"I don't know. We're just..." said the girl on horseback, just before Jolson took her off into the field's horizon. You were watching her foot and you didn't see it kick. That horse ran off on its own free will. That horse, it knows something.

Go out to the stables tonight.

Happy Girl On Horseback Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty "Hitchin' To Get Hitched" Weekend!

Every November, Prettygirl likes to take to the open road and thumb her way into a brand new marriage. Unlock the passenger door fellas, cause something naughty yet servile this way comes.

Because this is gonna take a few days, the next few personal regression assignments are going up now. Scroll down to read today's. And wait until tomorrow to read tomorrow's. As always, if you read ahead, you'll get blah blah herpes blah...

Friday, November 28, 2003

Wash Your Heart Day!

Soap it up and wring it dry. Get rid of every feeling you've ever had, from love to itchy. When you're done you'll be able to look at someone attractive and think, "I have no emotional precedent to believe that you might tear me into pieces and leave me to spend the next few years wriggling back together like the liquid metal terminator in T2. Come over my house."

Happy Wash Your Heart Day!

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Commit Crimes Day!

Start with arson. That's where you set something that's not yours on fire. Yes, that includes the fucking bakery.

Happy Commit Crimes Day!

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Fall Asleep, Naked, In Someone's Arms, Never Wake Up Day!

The "never wake up" part of this one can be tricky, so you should eat lots of pills before you lay down. Either that or really hit the treadmill like a fucking bull so you'll be tired enough to sleep for all eternity. Also, it is recommended that the person in whose arms you fall asleep is bitchin', and that you've decided that this person is the only person that you ever want to be with, to hold you, to breathe with you for the rest of your life.

Happy Fall Asleep, Naked, In Someone's Arms, Never Wake Up Day!

In Your Beautiful Car Day!

He's so happy. He's got his knees bent nice and his hands are folded in his lap. He put on the CD he brought for the ride tonight. He's by your side. He's in love with you and your beautiful car.

It's so cold outside. It's just cold enough inside. The heat turned on so low it keeps the cheeks red. He's looking forward to the cigarette he's going to have when you pull over for coffee. And he puts the back of your right hand to his lips more often than you get green lights.

This wasn't in the cards for tonight. You drove to his house to watch "Catch Me If You Can." Then Jennifer called his house and cried to him for a while. Jennifer is your friend but he's the sort of boy girls are wont to cry to. She asked for you and you learned that you had to go to her. A 100 minute drive and he immediately offered to accompany you. Right after he finds that CD in the stack.

You can hear a hum. Could be the engine or the whirr of the CD. Can a love make noise? It's coming from him. It's either coming out of his heart or his belly. You look at him, you look at the trees and houses whizzing by. The lights are streaks of yellow and green and the sky's painted too purple, like a kid's room. You try to open up to it all, try to feel what he's feeling. You've almost got it, you think, but your mouth just can't smile like that.

Don't blame yourself. It's not his car, Jennifer's not his friend, and he doesn't have to keep his eyes on the road.

Happy In Your Beautiful Car Day!

Your Cabin's All Set Day!

Your husband spent the weekend boarding up the windows and locking everything down for the winter. It will be ready to sell once the weather clears, and there probably won't be anyone living in it until the summer after next. You think that's appropriate.

You didn't fall in love there. It was home to your love. There were no questions inside that cabin. It is the place where one of your sons was conceived. It contains the chair where you slept inside your husband's lap for a thousand hours over the course of nine summers. The cabin didn't see your love blossom, it saw your love celebrated.

A winter, a spring, a summer, a fall, a winter, a spring. So glad you are that it can't be shown during the colder months. That there is absolutely no chance of someone moving in there for over a year. Let it freeze solid until it cracks into two halves that fall to their sides. Let it stand empty and cold, a dead shadow in the snow. Let teens on a ski weekend break in and fuck on your beds and piss on your floors. But don't let anyone else try and love inside that wood. At least not for five or six seasons. That should be enough time. Almost maybe just enough.

Happy Your Cabin's All Set Day!

Into Darkness, Hold His Hand Day!

When you and your boyfriend go down into your parents' basement to find the Twister mat, use the opportunity to squeeze his hand and jump into his arms at the softest of disturbance in the junk around the floor. Should a killer or a phantom jump out at the two of you, hide behind him. Then when your boyfriend kills the killer/phantom and you're back upstairs, shiver in your boyfriend's embrace then lift your lips up to him and make out with him like crazy. If your boyfriend gets killed by the killer/phantom, look down at the bloody, pulpy mass that used to be his body and scream in a maelstrom of horror and woe, then look to the killer/phantom and let it be plain in your eyes that you comprehend the palpable erotic charge in the current situation: you being the cowering prey to his/its bloodthirsty hunter.

Happy Into Darkness, Hold His Hand Day!

The Wasted Boys Day!

The wasted boys are on the couch. They're a little angry. Because all the pussy left. The wasted boys aren't saying anything to each other. They're hungry though, and there's nothing to eat. The wasted boys all blame each other for making the pussy get up and leave before it was even 2 am. There's something good on tv and sometimes the wasted boys laugh at what they're watching. But most of the time, the wasted boys just wish they were somewhere else. Somewhere where all the boys around them aren't quite so wasted. Maybe San Diego, that might be nice. There'd probably be a lot more pussy there, each of the wasted boys thinks to himself.

One of the wasted boys is really sad, but he won't tell the other wasted boys. They'd just make fun of him. So the sad wasted boy is gonna go off and be alone for a while, starting in three days. He's gonna try to shape up.

Happy The Wasted Boys Day!

Not Yet Ripened Peaches Day!

In the morning you will find that the peaches in the refrigerator are not ripened to an ideal degree of deliciousness. You will squeeze each one twice and maybe three times before you tell the toaster, "I guess I can't eat my peaches yet." That's when everything will go black.

You'll say to the toaster, "Looks like someone cut off the electricity. Must be trying to bust into the building." You'll try the phone, but it will be dead. Then you will see a man in black rappel past your window. And he will see you. He will pause just long enough to put his finger to his lips in a gesture of "Shush" before he continues down the side of the building.

You will say to the toaster, "Guess I'd better be quiet for a little while. At least until that guy's gone. Talk to you later toaster." You will go into your room, lay in bed, and listen to the smashing of glass and the screaming.

There shall be gunfire.

Happy Not Yet Ripened Peaches Day!

The Kissings Day!

Today there will be a rash outbreak of kissings, starting with...

7:32 AM - The Home of Jeffrey and Wilma Craig, Milford, Wisconsin. Mr. Craig will awake to the sound of his morning news radio station. He will blink his eyes a few times to wipe away a dream. He will roll over and kiss his wife Wilma of eleven years. He will go to the bathroom and wash.

9:41 AM- Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School, Wilmington Delaware. Assistant principal Laura Marcus will lead 3rd grade language arts teacher David Willis to the xerox room under the pretense of needing assistance with a toner change. When Willis crouches down to peek into the exposed belly of the copier, Marcus will take his left hand and pull him back to his feet. She will place her closed lips upon his slightly parted lips. It will have been a long time coming.

3:59 PM - La Brea Jiffy Lube, Los Angeles, Ca. Three car lengths away from getting his car serviced, Jacob Reed will take his new kitten out of the cardboard carrier provided to him by the shelter, and he will pet its squirming head with his thumbs, and he will kiss it three times between the ears and once on the spine. Jacob will put the kitten back in its carrier and he will believe that today is the start of a better time.

8:20 PM - Rich People's Attics, a New York City antique shop owned by Johnson Crane. In the back office Johnson Crane will make love to Charles Evans, his boyfriend of eleven months. This will involve many kisses.

11:04 PM - O'Hare Airport, Terminal D. Jetblue flight 86 will arrive at gate 21 B and release the round smiling face of Lisa Cohen. Waiting for her, impatient to find out the decision Lisa said she would make while visiting her parents in Sacramento, will be Tobias Hutch. When Lisa sees Tobias, her smile will expand by thirteen percent. She will walk to him and lift her lips up to be kissed. Tobias will comply. In the kiss, her decision will be plain. Tobias will take her bag and they will walk to short-term parking.

Happy The Kissings Day!

You Are Foreign Day!

Ever wish you didn't speak the language indigenous to the place you live and everything around you was frightening and things as small as buying a roll of toilet paper would loom over you as huge obstacles to traverse?

Well today's the day when your wishes are all gonna come true. Because today, you're foreign! And though you have a certain otherworldly charm that's gonna land you lots of tang, the elderly are pissed off that you're even here. Now go take our jobs, wetback!

Happy You Are Foreign Day!

Inadvertently Steal From A Drug Kingpin Day!

What the hell else is there to do in this one lesbian town? Nothin', that's what!

So when you and your friend decide to rob a stranger in town who looks like he's got some spare cash on his person, make sure that stranger is actually a bagman for a very dangerous Drug Lord (amen) and is in town to exchange several million dollars in unmarked bills for several briefcases full of an exciting new synthetic drug that's better than cocaine but doesn't make people as dead. But you of course can't know that the guy is involved in a drug deal. You can't realize what you've done until you're in the passenger seat of a car and you open up the guy's bag and find millions of dollars. Your friend will pull the car over and you'll figure out what to do by the side of the road.

You'll decide to confront the Drug Lord (have mercy) and you will of course end up killing him and taking over the cartel. Congratulations, and I love you.

Happy Inadvertently Steal From A Drug Kingpin Day!

Pretty Skin And Bones Day!

On your way to work think of the pretty pile of skin and bones you left inside your bed, the pretty unemployed pile of skin and bones whose address you have so you don't have to worry about your stereo being stolen. The pretty pile of skin and bones who's way too giddy before and after sex, which makes you think that (after) she didn't quite get satisifed and (before) she doesn't like you all that much and she's trying to distract herself from that fact by singing some songs and playing some games and putting on a hat and saying, "How do I look in this? Stupid?"

The pile of skin and bones smiled in such a way last night that she can stay in your bed for ten days. If during those ten days she does not smile in such a way again, she's going to have to go back to her apartment and wait for you to call her. Unless during those ten days she does something else equally awesome, perhaps something involving tears.

When you get to work, don't think about the pretty pile of skin and bones anymore. While at work, let the memory of the pile of skin and bones consume your being. Merely thinking about it is not enough to battle the horror. You must hear her giggle with every word spoken, smell her shoulder with every breath you take in. Count the hours until you can return to her and find out whether the pile stayed inide your bed or whether she gathered her skin and bones together and walked out the door, leaving behind a note of thanks and a promise regarding later that night.

Happy Pretty Skin And Bones Day!

Let's Make Me Beautiful Day!

Let's have you throw your jacket on your body and run from a bar. We're gonna send you through a million red and yellow lit streets and we'll put some glycerine drops in your eyes to get some tears on your fat baby cheeks.

Now we've got my friend Steve throwing a small dinner for friends you don't know in his apartment. I'm not there, you called Steve ahead of time to find that out. You couldn't tell Steve why you're coming over because you needed Steve to excuse himself from his dinner table to sit down on the stairwell with some cigarettes and find out what put that moan into your phone voice.

The way we're gonna have Steve play this one is he's gonna be giddy. Steve'll have had a pretty boring week and his dinner guests and his girlfriend won't have livened it up by the time you call. But when he tells you it's cool to come over, he'll be excited to go back to the dinner table and announce that a friend is coming over and she sounds like she's in bad shape. He might need to step away for a moment, but it won't be long, he'll say. "I am important to someone," will be his point. The guests will ask some questions but will try not to be too probing, though they will all be glad that the conversation will have veered away from what one of them read in that morning's Times magazine. Steve's girlfriend will sit quietly in a homocidal rage. This will make Steve happy.

In the apartment, Steve will introduce you briefly to the table. "This is the breakdown I'm going to prevent," will be his point. You'll apologize for interrupting and then the two of you will go out to the stairs. You'll light a cigarette. Steve will light one of yours for himself because he doesn't smoke.

Before you say a word, we need you to smoke that cigarette to the butt then light a second.

"I just all of a sudden felt crippled. At this table, with all our friends at the bar, I thought he could show up at any second. And I couldn't have that." These are your lines. "I needed to be where he won't be. I feel like this whole city was built for just him and me to walk around in. He's out there not knowing where I am and I'm out there not knowing where he is. And I just needed to be someplace where I know he won't be."

Steve has always liked talking to you alone. Steve is very happy with the man he's become when he manages to hold a meaningful conversation with you. He doesn't have a crush on you or anything. We don't want that. We just want him to admire you.

"I want a list. A map color-coded according to the places he isn't. I don't want to know where he is. I want to know where he won't be."

Steve will ask, "Can't you go home. You can be sure he won't be there."

We need you to shake your head. "Home is worst of all. I once saw him there. He was just walking down the street past my building, but he never has any reason to be there. Since then, I've put off starting my work by just sitting in the window tracing the path I saw him walk that day. It's awful, my street."

We're gonna have Steve go into the apartment to make some calls and find out where you can sleep or drink. You'll wait the duration of two cigarettes.

"Janice says her shift ends at two. Janice was working there while they were going out and he used to be there every night drinking for free while he waited for her to get off. So he'll never set foot in that bar again for the rest of his life." We want you to understand this. We want it to be clear that you know about his breakup with Janice.

"Also," Steve's gonna say. "Kim said you can crash at her place."

"Kim?" you'll say. The way Steve feels about you, the admiration for you and the pride he derives from knowing you take him seriously, that's how we need you to feel about Kim. An invitation from her is one you would never pass up. You find her to be an amazing person, the kind of woman you want to be. In short, it's important that Kim takes you seriously.

"You're sure Kim's okay with this?" you'll ask.

Steve is gonna say, "Honestly, she sounded a little roughed up herself. I don't think she's going to sleep anytime soon. She could use the company."

Now you're gonna go to Kim's. But first, Steve is gonna ask, "Has it been this bad for a while, or did you just get hit especially hard tonight?" We know it's a stupid question, but that's what we want Steve to say. We need him to grasp at something that will keep you out there on his stairwell a little longer. We want to hammer home how much Steve wants to give of himself to you so that for years after tonight, you'll remember what a good friend he was to you when you needed a good friend, and you will speak well of him.

Happy Let's Make Me Beautiful Day!

You Two Are Pretty Serious Now Day!

Does this bother you?

Not at all. You don't want me to...like...?

I just want to watch.

I really had to go.

It starts with a corkscrew.

A what?

A little spiral. Right at the top of the stream.

So it does.

Like a competitive diver.

I never noticed.

Is it kind of closed up?

It's just a little flair. Flash and lights.

Come on.

I like to put on a good show for my audience.

It's sort of perfect.

I think that's just the shape of the peehole.

One of those things repeated throughout nature. Spirals.

I dated a girl who liked that. Liked it on her.

I don't. You really did have to go.

Almost done. When are we meeting Jen and Brian?

I don't want to go to dinner. Let's stay in?

Call and cancel?

I'll call and cancel. We'll eat in bed.

Happy You Two Are Pretty Serious Now Day!

She's Addicted To Drugs Day!

If you're wondering why Marie doesn't seem like herself lately, it's because she's addicted to drugs. Specifically, crystal meth, cocaine, acid, heroin, and alcohol. And marijuana and PCP. And crack.

That's why her eyes are bright red and they sometimes spin in their sockets. That's why she's a gunowner and a reckless one at that. That's why she bought, sold, bought back, and is now looking for a new buyer for that baby Heather. That's why she lives in a puddle of urine on the fourth floor of an abandoned building no one can get into without sticking someone's cock in his or her mouth. That's why she seems so fickle all the time, every day calling you to tell you about the new boy that she's in love with. "No, no, Jason was yesterday. Today, I think Brad is the dreamiest!" And yes, that's why her forearms fell off at the elbow.

You're her friend. She needs your help with this. Get her off of drugs. If she dies, it will be your fault and yours alone.

Happy She's Addicted To Drugs Day!

Strive For Elegance Day!

When you walk down stairs, let your hand glide just a centimeter above the banister. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, pause, look to your left, then your right, then smile like you're rich. When you walk across the room, choose a pace that says, "No one's going to start without me. And I'm not at all afraid that I'm going to be shot." When you enter the grand ballroom, pause, look to your left, then your right, then smile like you've given up on love, but the one you're smiling is a pretty fun time. There'll be three steps down to the floor. Walk them as if they were balanced on toothpicks (but don't scream out). Now blink your eyes as if to say, "My pussy's only just a little bit wet at all times. In fact, my day to day, errand-running lubrication is no different than when I am in the throes of passion. But no one's ever complained. I sure as hell ain't gonna." Now take your money out of your purse and count it.

Happy Strive For Elegance Day!

That Kid's Not Gonna Die Day!

He's the one we all look to for hope. We always knew there had to be someone out there who would just by some weird accident or chance of circumstances never ever die. He's Bobby, and he's immortal. Apparently.

See, Bobby has cancer, but he's hanging in there. He's really weak, and vomits constantly the way everyone with cancer is real into doing. When you see him, you'll think "That kid is definitely going to die. And actually, I wanna get outta here because I think it's gonna happen right now." But medical doctors think otherwise.

"That kid is not going to die!" said Dr. Davis, a medical doctor, right after he examined Bobby and, though he found all the telltale signs of a dying boy, nonetheless came to the conclusion that "This kid's got the stuff. He's going to outlive us all. Even our energies that linger in rooms and lead people to believe in ghosts. He'll outlive our energies," Dr. Davis went on to say.

"I concur with Dr. Davis," said Dr. Daniels, also a medical doctor. Dr. Daniels gave Bobby the thoroughest of looksees, and though Bobby had no pulse and his lungs were drowned in bile, Dr. Daniels countered all objections with, "Look, who's the doctor here? Are you a doctor? You? How about you? No? Well then, I guess I'm the only one up in this shit that can say what up. If you shut your fat stinking mortal pieholes for a second I'll explain it in terms even retards like you can understand. Get it? Got it? Fuckin awesome."

All of Bobby's relatives who were gathered around his bed quieted down to listen to Dr. Daniels. The doctor took a deep breath, appeared to be searching for the right words, then just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Check it out. This kid's in it to win it. He was clearly born from a power dark and unholy. Gonna live forever after, yes he is so gonna."

Later, Dr. Dougherty, an additional medical doctor, joined Doctors Davis and Daniels in their optimistic prognosis. "They're right," he said.

What no one realizes is that, though Bobby slips in and out of a feverish coma-like vegetative state only to vomit or shriek in anguish, he can hear what everyone is saying. And he is very excited that he's the kid that's not gonna die.

Happy That Kid's Not Gonna Die Day!

It Snowed Day!

You tell your roommate but he already found out. You tell him your plans. You're getting out. You're going to go buy candy. You ask if he's down. He is.

Neither of you wash your bodies, but you both put on pants, shirts, coats, he has boots. You don't.

You head down the steps through the door and out into nothing. There's white and there's silence and there's nothing. People stand still here and there. They smile at nothing. They do nothing.

After Eight makes a candy bar now. You buy one for three dollars. You also buy an egg sandwich. The man behind the counter is happy. There's nothing outside for him to covet. In here is good. He'll stay as long as this is all there is.

Your roommate buys vitamin water and cakes. He buys potato chips and toothpaste. He buys a bag of cashews for 95 cents American.

The fifteen minutes in the deli fills weeks. Back outside, you hold bags and you taste your breath. New people stand on the intersection. They have placed themselves randomly, or they were dropped from the sky.

Upstairs you unload in the kitchen with your coats still on. There's a message from your roommate's girlfriend. She needs to come over but she doesn't know how. She's trying to find a way. She'll call again if she decides it is impossible.

Happy It Snowed Day!

Hm Day!

While Michelle's sleeping, you rifle through her things. Mostly bills and official looking papers, some weed, some photographs, a lot of one guy who is less attractive than you. His arms are around her sometimes. Whatever. You won't ever be seeing Michelle again, probably, so you just wanna learn a little bit about her before you run back home to change before you go to work.

You hate having to get up this early. But everyone you sleep with has a better apartment than you (you sleep on a twin-sized mattress on the floor of a semi-private bedroom). So it shall be done. But not before you rifle through a drawer or two, a drawer or two containing remnants of a girl.

Letters, a shitload of pens. Drawing pencils (only one sharpened, looks like the point is barely dulled). Printed out emails (get the hell outta there). A passport. Where's she been?

"Hm."

Two stamps. One for Argentina. One for the Phillipines.

"Hm."

In her passport picture she looks like hell. Very different hair. No, completely unrecognizable hair. And the name on the page reads Nina Kreplovich.

She said her name was Michelle.

"Hm."

You go home to change before you go to work.

Happy Hm Day!

Was She Held? Day!

At 10:20 am, as her eyes opened and saw that it was sunny outside, and as she tried to decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, and as she tried to shuffle off the dream she had been bundled up in, and as she tried to buy the fact that "this is what it's like to be awake or I mean alive, this staring at some curtains and buying that yeah it's sunny today and now let's try to feel something," was she held then?

There were some arms within reaching distance. In a logical world they would've been wrapped all up around her because she was even naked even. But not just that, more importantly, she was there and she was coming to and starting a new day. Who wouldn't want to lay claim on that moment, wrap the little girl up like "The moment when she comes back to all of us for one more day, that moment is all mine, wrapped up tight close to my chest. Just try and take it away from me I swear to God I'll kill you dead." Did that go down? Was she held then?

For certain, no doubt, she was locked in a coil of arm and elbow and big safe Dad-type muscle. How else could this morning have worked out. Gonna try to tell me she was right there, and he was right beside her all night long thinking about something besides how awful it is that suns sometimes rise and make you get out of bed? Gonna try to make me buy that, that someone was too busy crossing off a to-do list in his head, adding up how many years he's got left to make himself a man, wondering how someone else in someone else's bed is gonna wake up tomorrow morning? Wondering if she'll be held then?

No fucking way. She was held then, right?

Happy Was She Held? Day!

In The Papa Don't Preach Video, Danny Aiello Gave The Performance Of A Lifetime Day!

You remember. The dishwashing scene. The leaning on things. Where's her mother? you, the viewer, asked his sad eyes. Why must you tackle this trouble all on your own. Did she leave? Did she pass away? Something in the way his flesh hung from his cheek bones made you think you knew the answer, or at least made you rethink writing a letter to Danny Aiello c/o Madonna's recording company.

When you first saw the video, you were one year old and when Madonna told Danny Aiello that she was pregnant, you wanted to say to somebody "He's gonna take a swing at her," but you didn't know how to talk. When he didn't, you realized he wanted you to think that. And there, in your playpen, you thought, "Danny Aiello, you are one wily coyote." And then you lived for 29 years.

Happy In The Papa Don't Preach Video, Danny Aiello Gave The Performance Of A Lifetime Day!

The Rilke Poem Day!

The one about the bikes. Huffys. Reading it in on the grass of a hill, you will finally attain the understanding necessary to conclude your mourning period for your father and get back into competitive archery.

It's the one about the bikes. But not the one that starts, "Fuck suck ya'll..."

Happy The Rilke Poem Day!

The Creation Station Day!

When you signed up for the ice sculpture class, you just wanted to learn how to make something nice for your sister's wedding. The Creation Station welcomes beginners and it seemed like a budget-friendly, low-pressure environment for you to get your chops and hopefully give you the skills you need to bring your design to life (a little boy and a little girl standing at an altar getting married by a penguin in a tophat).

But instead, with your very first exercise, you went and chiseled the face of God into a block of ice. Whether it was just beginners luck or someone working through you doesn't really matter to all of your classmates who are now blind because their eyeballs turned to hot coals that they had to pry out with their chisels before any brain matter was singed.

No one blames you, especially since you got it worst of all (not only are your eyes gone, but your mouth sealed up into a little tiny O that can just barely allow entrance to a club soda straw, and you now whistle with every breath). The Creation Station, while offering low-cost outlets to the inner Da Vinci in every Mom, is appearently also home to the wrath of an angry angry God. But not quite so angry as the letter you are going to sit down to write to demand your non-refundable deposit back.

Happy The Creation Station Day!

Your Favorite Plane Ride Day!

There's a girl you just met and you both get drunk and talk about Dads dying. You talk about dirty things and there's no one else in the row with you. She has the most beautiful neck in the sky. While you're not in first class, the flight attendant doesn't charge you for your drinks after a while. Additionally, though you're drunk and flying, it doesn't feel horrible and you're not sneezing.

The two of you confess some things. You do it very aware that you don't need to confess anything, you're just trying to impress her. She drops her bomb then cries a little then laughs about it and you give her napkins to wipe her snot and after she stops crying and laughing she puts her hand on yours. Not in any big dramatic way. She just puts it there. Then she keeps it there for the rest of the ride.

In mid-flight, the two of you make fun of everyone else on the plane. With just an hour to go, she falls asleep with her head on your shoulder. You lay your lips on the top of her head and keep them there. She wakes up kissing your shirt without being aware of it.

In the terminal, you make a plan for where you'll meet up that night in Chicago. She doesn't show.

Happy Your Favorite Plane Ride Day!

Peanut Butter Day!

Sick with love and alcoholism, Randy tries to eat peanut butter because he can't swallow solids. His stomach can keep the food down, but the lump in his throat won't let anything get there without a great effort.

Randy gets a spoonful of peanut butter past his tonsils and feels it envelope the lump. It clumps near his windpipe. He's afraid it might cup over the top of the pipe and stop his breathing while he's sleeping tonight.

Randy has to drink some more bourbon. Bourbon is the only thing that can shrink the lump right now. Last week it was rum, but that stopped working so he had to switch to bourbon.

The glassful of bourbon rains on the clump of peanut butter in his throat. It puddles in the crevaces. Randy has to wait for the bourbon to seep deep into the mass of peanut butter and eventually dribble onto the lump. It takes a moment.

"I think I can feel the lump getting smaller," Randy says out loud, hoping to make it come true. "But just to be sure..."

Randy drinks another glass of bourbon. He can now feel the lump yielding passage to the peanut butter. He is able to close his mouth now without gagging.

"The peanut butter is definitely heading for my belly now," he thinks. "Once it is there, I will have eaten. And I will get better."

Randy knows that it is the bourbon that shrinks the lump. And whenever he stops drinking the bourbon, the lump in his throat returns.

"But one day it won't," he says to his glass of bourbon. He talks to his bourbon sometimes. His bourbon is his friend. "One day, I'll wake up and the lump won't be there anymore. And I'll climb off of the floor and into my bed and sleep with a slight smile on my lips." But there's no reason for Randy to stop drinking bourbon if all he can do is wait. Unless the bourbon stops working. But he's thought ahead. There's gin in the cabinet.

Randy pours another glass of bourbon. "This time, I'll think of Anna's bras."

With a vision of two Annas wearing two different bras in his head, his two favorites, Randy swallows the glassful of bourbon and goes into the living room to sit on the floor with his back up against the couch.

Happy Peanut Butter Day!

She's In The Hospital Day!

You walk through the hospital with urgency. If there are any doors on hinges, you march towards them and fling them open with a loud clap. Everyone looks your way as you run to your ex's bedside.

The day you hear about the tumble, you don't arrive with a gift in hand. Of fucking course not. Everyone else believes her story about getting dizzy from antihistimines while gardening on the roof, but you know damn well it was an attempted suicide and you're furious. You don't hear from the twat for a month and a half, and then you get a call that she tried to off herself. The walk to the hospital room seems to be taking forever and you hope that by the time you get there your urge to slap her in the eyes has cooled down a bit.

Crowding into the room are her husband of one year, and his fucking mom and dad. They're all at every occasion. How she can keep from releasing a single never-ending yawn is beyond you.

She's in the middle of smiling her way through a story when you burst in. She spots you, and her face turns solemn. She mutters through the remainder of the story, then everyone turns to acknowledge you.

Her torso is in a body cast. "You look like a fucking idiot," you say.

She shakes her head, closes her eyes. "Tom, take Beth and Martin out to the vending machines for a bit." Tom's her dull as ducklings husband and he knows his place. He obeys.

"You wanna talk about this..."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? I could kill you."

"You wanna talk about this, you talk to me about it. These people are sweet."

"You just referred to the man you married as 'these people'."

"They love and care for me and they accept the fact that I accidentally fell from the roof. Because they would never want me to be so unhappy that I might want to jump. Don't upset them with the truth."

"I wouldn't care if your in-laws were tied to burning posts. I care about you."

"You care about yourself."

"I do. And if you take your life I swear to God I'll destroy this world."

She can tell you mean it, but she says, "You wouldn't." Perhaps to get you to say it again.

"You fucking know I would you miserable cunt."

Her husband pokes his head through the door. "Honey, can I get you some tea or a snack?"

"Run out to the deli, sweetie? And pick me up some magazines to read."

Her husband says sure thing. She says, "Lock that door."

You do. She says, "Climb atop my body cast."

You do. She turns her head on its side on the pillow. You rest your lips on her cheek. You keep them there.

She says, "We have about ten minutes before he comes back."

For about ten minutes, your lips sleep upon her cheek, your legs straddling her body cast.

Happy She's In The Hospital Day!

Everyone Into The Basement Day!

That's what your big brother tells you and your five sisters whenever your Dad comes home drunk.

"Everyone into the basement!" he shouts. "Dad's home and he don't look so good. Move IT! Move IT! Move IT!"

It makes you all laugh. Especially your Dad. He laughs the hardest, because he's a very jovial, gentle drunk. And your Dad loves it when your older brother acts like he's the kind of drunk Dad who's just gonna haul off and start beating the shit out of you all, burning your forearms on hot radiators and the like. When in reality, he's just gonna turn on Bravo and pass out in his chair.

Happy Everyone Into The Basement Day!

A Gripping Moment At The State Diner Day!

Reggie's learning to spend some time alone. It's going well enough. He's finding that his thoughts can be good company, especially since he's always thinking about what it would be like to have two girlfriends and the ability to run as fast as horses.

Tonight Reggie went to the diner. For a coffee and a view of the street. He's been there for around forty minutes with a vision of crossing a finish line in his head, and two smiling young ladies jumping up and down and applauding on opposite ends of the bleachers. It's a pretty Saturday night for Reggie.

In his mind he's drinking some gatorade and giving an interview to a television sportscaster when he shakes the fantasy away to notice the mailman with a mailbag slung over his shoulder stopping in front of the diner to check the address. The mailman looks at the postcard in his hand

Reggie looks at his watch to see it's 8:53 PM. "That guy woke up late today," thinks Reggie. The mailman enters the diner and speaks with the cashier.

Reggie drifts back to the track where he, Julie and Lorraine are trying to coordinate their plans for the evening. Julie wants to see Mystic River at 8, and Lorraine just wants to make sure the movie lets out early enough for Reggie to meet her and her visiting parents for a drink at the hotel where her parents are staying. Then he notices the waiter is standing by his table and not refilling his coffee. He looks up to see the waiter with a postcard in his hand.

"You Reggie...uh..." the waiter checks the postcard. "Reggie...Milanopolous?"

Reggie is. "How'd you know?"

The waiter drops the postcard on the table. Reggie picks it up and reads.

Reggie Milanopolous
c/o State Diner
Third Booth By The Window
333 Morton Blvd
Hayworth, TX

Boy, get down! Head to the tabletop! Now!

Reggie throws his nose to the table and waits for the gunshot. He turns his eyes up just in time to see a straw wrapper shoot past and float down onto the empty seat of adjacent booth. Had Reggie not gotten that postcard, the straw wrapper would've slammed directly into the back of his head.

He sits back up and looks behind him to find a little boy with a crewcut, the naked straw to his lips aimed straight at Reggie. The boy's mother takes the straw from his mouth and motions for him to finish his hamburger. Reggie goes back to the postcard and reads the rest.

Hope this helped kid.

Sincerely,

Tom Cruise

Reggie checks the postmark. It says "Hollywood."

Happy A Gripping Moment At The State Diner Day!

Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

I'm a twenty nine year old divorced nursing professional and I'm bored with the kind of nursing that goes on here in Wichita. Nothing but taking care of patients who live in or are visiting Wichita. Can you tell me some states in the USA where I can get in on some of that way bitchin' nursing I'm always seeing on television shows?

Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas

I have some good news and some bad news for you BANBIK. The good news is that you're not alone. Almost every nurse in the USA wakes up every morning thinking to herself, "I'm so disappointed with the occupation I've chosen. I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA feel the same way as me. That is, I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA wanna spit in faces and spraypaint graffiti onto sleeping bums."

The bad news is, there's one state in the USA where Nursing is awesome. Pennsylvania.

Happy Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

Today, you're pregnant. It's just like in the movie "She's Having A Baby" except you already took the US FDA approved equivalent of RU 486, which amounts to not much more than a shitload of birth control pills all at once. There'll be some abdominal pain and a lot of spotting, but you've pretty much taken care of everything. You'll be fine in a week, though your doctor said you should call in sick tomorrow and keep to bed for the rest of the weekend. Again, there isn't a lot of risk to this. But there can be complications. Just don't push yourself.

And don't tell your guy. He knows you'll get pissed off at him if he acts like he's glad you aborted, so he'll go through the "What right do you have to make that decision for the both of us" tantrum in order to keep getting that ass when you feel better next week.

Happy Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

You're Sick Of Murder Day!

Today, you won't be able to control yourself. You'll be leaning over the torn up remains of a sixteen year old homeless boy who was found underneath some trash. There'll be some vomit on his belly and a chisel lodged in his left eyesocket. In his wallet, you guessed it, a photo of a mother and a father, each with a hand on the shoulder of a twelve year old boy. It's just a guess that the bloody mess before you was the boy in that photo.

A cop in uniform will say, "Think it's the same guy, detective?" You'll reel around to shout something, but you won't know what or why. Just doing his job, trying to solve a murder. Just like you for fourteen years now. But you need to shout something. Anything.

"Don't you...?"

The cop will wait for a scolding. He's used to being batted around at a crime scene.

"Detective?"

The alley will start to spin. You'll walk a few quick paces away from the cop, trying to get your bearings. Then you'll stop and shout up at the windows of the apartment buldings all around you.

"I am so SICK of murder!!!"

You'll feel like you shouted loud enough to crack the sky, and you'll wonder if you did because a silence will follow. A silence broken by a stifled snicker. You'll turn to find the uniformed cop with his shoulders shivering, his hand over his grinning mouth.

You'll be ready to shut him up when you spy the other beat cop and the landlady he's interviewing, both of them giggling together. A loud guffaw will echo from the mouth of a little boy hanging out his window up above. The crowd of bystanders will erupt in a rolling, building cackle.

Soon, everyone on the crime scene will be laughing at you. You can run or start shooting.

Happy You're Sick Of Murder Day!

The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Today, you have a lunch date with Craig Latham. Yes, the Craig Latham. The kid that dropped the baton.

As far as you knew, there had been no word from Craig in the ten or so years since that baton clattered to the gravel of the track and he lost the relay race for his entire team. He stuck around school for another week or so after the race, but he was beaten so severely and ridiculed with such venom that he had no choice but to drop out and get out of town.

When someone from the school paper wanted to do a story on Craig a few years later, his parents were discovered to have moved four owns over. They left town as well because Craig's enemies did not draw a distinction between Craig and those who shared his blood. Rarely was the night that went by without a brick crashing through their window. Craig's parents knew it would only get worse, so they went away.

"But Craig didn't come with us," Mr. Latham said. "For our safety, he said he had to go off alone. Told us to forget we had a son."

Mrs. Latham added, "Goddamn did he ever cunt up a lotta shit for everybody when he dropped that cocksucking baton. Retard can't even grab onto a stick."

The Lathams showed the reporter a postcard with a postage stamp from Dubuque. "But he ain't there," said Mr. Latham. "See, it says so on the card."

Scribbled on the card were the words, "I'm not in Dubuque. I came down here solely to mail a postcard from here. Fucking baton. C."

You couldn't believe your eyes when you spotted him at the train station on Saturday. He was standing in the middle of the floor, underneath the clock, staring at you. Waiting for you it seemed.

"I don't have much time before I have to go underground again," he said. "Meet me at the lower level Au Bon Pain on Tuesday at 1:30."

You sucked in some air to ask a question, and he was gone.

Why you? Why now? Today, your questions will go unanswered. But what Craig has to say will prove your questions irrelevant.

He'll sit with his back to the wall, and he won't look you in the eye throughout your entire meeting. He'll be too busy looking for the face of his assassin.

He'll say, "Just a charity race for MS, I thought. What harm could it do. I just never thought everyone would take it so seriously."

Can you ever forgive the warrior heart inside of man? you'll ask.

"Forgiveness would imply a response to something resembling contrition. There is nothing to forgive." He'll lean in close. He'll stink. "I've seen the darkness inside of man, and I have chosen to study and embrace that darkness. To feed upon it and one day spread that darkness like a blanket over all the world. When I signed up for that race, it was an event of blblical proportions. If I can stay alive long enough, this world will end."

You'll sleep with him.

Happy The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Dissuading The Architect Day!

The architect says, but if I build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, the sun will hit the skylight just so and the tile I've had imported from Peru will attain a permanent glisten. You adjust your shelf of bosom and stand very close to the architect, looking up into his eyes and playing with the buttons of his shirt and you say, but if you don't build over the ancient Indian burial ground, I'll remove my clothing and pull you inside of me. The architect says, hmm, you drive a hard bargain. But nope! I have to fulfill my vision or else my soul is fucked. You say, but it feels really awesome inside me. I've been told it feels, quote, Great, end-quote. The architect says, but why is it so important to you that I not build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground? And, how great? You say, if you build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, those uppity Injuns'll pop up out of the ground shouting, "Guess how dead we are today, ya'll. Fuckin' shit up, it's on the agenda!" And, as great as a bath in a really big, clean tub. The architect says, Fine, pull me inside of you. BUT BE CLASSY ABOUT IT!!!

Happy Dissuading The Architect Day!

Howling Fat Man Day!

Today on public transport, you will spy a 365 pound man in denim shorts sitting with his hands resting on the handle of an umbrella. He will be howling softly.

You'll follow his eyes to the crowd of young people huddled around one of the floor poles. None of them will be especially attractive and neither will any of them be carrying a little dog in a sherpa bag. But the fat man will be howling into their general direction.

When you look around to the other passengers to see if any of them find this as strange as you do, you will discover that everyone but the howling fat man is staring directly at you. You are marked and they know you walk among them.

Happy Howling Fat Man Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Stakeout Weekend!

On Friday, October 24th at 7 AM, Prettygirl rented a Ford Taurus and parked it on a residential street on the Upper East Side of New York City. The Taurus is currently parked with a clear view of a third floor apartment window. The man who owns this apartment is Prettygirl's Uncle Morris. Uncle Morris' seventieth birthday is coming up soon. Prettygirl has no idea what to get him for a gift, but she wants it to be something special. Therefore, it is necessary that his day to day life be monitored, charted, and that conclusions be drawn as to just the kind of man this Uncle Morris truly is, and whether he would prefer a roll-neck J. Crew sweater, or a Tivo.

Thus far, Prettygirl has learned that Uncle Morris will not put on pants unless it is absolutely necessary. Additionally, his groin is itchy.

Not a lot to go on, which is why your personal regression assignments might be given to you on a less than regular basis, as Prettygirl is primarily alone on this Stakeout. Except when a boy named David visits the car so that she can run to a public bathroom or a Kinkos, then run back to the car to make out with David until he has to go back to class (he's studying to be an astronaut).

Yesterday's and today's assignments are below. Keep your head down and pass the donuts.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

King Libido Day!

Today, King Libido will leer out from his throne and decree, "Everybody come up here and rub upon me." And all shall obey.

Happy King Libido Day!

Friday, October 24, 2003

She's Way Fucked Up Day!

You fell in love with her on her first day of orientation at the museum. You showed everyone in your training group where the bathrooms were, and she said "Man, I'm gonna be spending a lot of time in there today. I've been sick to my stomach for three years now."

She's the prettiest museum guard you ever did see. And after months of shuffling your days off, you finally got it so that you're both in the Degas room on Fridays, and you both get off at six.

You'll ask if she'd like to grab a beer and she'll say, "I'll drive." You'll spend hours at the bar. The conversation will be just as perfect as you imagined it would be. The kind of ease with a person that you haven't felt since the last time you fell in love. You'll both have had quite a lot to drink, but alcohol doesn't make this kind of thing happen. You'll blame your hearts.

Finally, you'll suggest that the two of you get out of there. She'll say, "I'll drive." But she'll be way fucked up, and when she hits an icy patch she'll send the car into a ditch. You'll both live, but she'll have a horrible scrape on her face from the airbag. You'll wait inside the car for the police to arrive, holding each other for warmth, smothering each other with gentle kisses upon the face and neck. It's going to be wonderful.

Happy She's Way Fucked Up Day!

Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Your brothers bought it without a twitch of an eyebrow. "Dad says he has amnesia, fuck it. Dad has amnesia," they said. "You're a faggot, dudefucker," they added. Then they took off their shoes and made you smell them.

But something about this story never quite sat right with you. Are you especially distrusting of your father? Or were you simply the only one who paid attention to everything that occurred just before the amnesia set in?

You stood in the hallway and watched your mother clumping up his dress shirts and lobbing them out the window onto the lawn. "Let your little slut iron these from now on," she shouted into the night. And though you weren't sure what she was talking about, you felt in your bones that things were never going to be the same. You just never imagined that it would work out that your father would come home and not recognize your face.

He must have been out there wondering how and why he came to your house. He just stood there on the lawn, staring at the clothes and trinkets he didn't recognize splayed across the grass. He looked like he was trying very hard to come to a conclusion. Then your mother came to the door and didn't shout. She just watched him. Your father came into the house.

"Who are you? Do you recognize me?" he asked your mother. "I feel a great deal of love for you, but I don't remember ever having met you in my life. Yet I feel I am supposed to live here and love the people in this house. Perhaps I have amnesia and cannot remember any of the major events in my life, especially the more recent ones. However, the warmth I feel in my heart makes me certain that this house is the place where I am to live and where I one day will die a happy man who lived a full life. May I stay? I appear to have amnesia."

The anger crept from your mother's brow. She looked to be trying to solve long division. You were hiding behind a chair, breathless with the suspense as your mother decided whether to hold her husband in her arms or start screaming again like she had been doing for the past two days that he was gone.

Then she took a breath and took him by the arm, leading him to the couch in the living room. "Boys," she shouted. "Come down here."

You and your brothers lined up on the sectional opposite where your mother was sitting beside your father.

"Boys, something terrible has happened. Your father has amnesia and he can't remember anything about his life."

She waited for your father to say something. He said to you and your brothers, "Who are you? Do you recognize me? I appear to have amnesia."

Your mother then took his chin in her hand and said into his eyes, "These are your children. And I am your wife. Never, never betray us."

Then she let go of his face. "This is your home," she said. "This is where you'll stay."

After that, you all wore nametags for a few months, and occasionally you'd have to remind him where the toilet is. But everything pretty much seemed like it was after not too long. At first, if you mentioned the amnesia to your mom, she'd just say "Think of it like a do-over." Later she'd say, "Your father is home. That's what matters." And she'd look at you a little too long before giving you a hug. After a while, she just stopped answering you.

Happy Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Mistletoe Day!

Today, because you don't work, you'll dig out your Christmas decorations. Not to put them up yet. You start early but before Halloween is just silly. No, you'll make the excuse that you just want to see if there'll be anything you need to shop for when the time comes. In reality though, Christmas makes you happy. So you figured that it was worth a shot to look at some Christmas decorations if it might help you to not be so terribly sad.

Underneath the trays of ornaments and wrapped up in a tangled string of lights will be that fake twig of mistletoe that you always hang in the foyer. You'll hold that fake twig of mistletoe in your fingertips and you'll look back on all the boys from whom it won you a kiss. You'll go down the list of names, and you'll realize that you'd never kissed any of those boys. They're the names of boys you'd wished would kiss you under your mistletoe, but who had never been inside your house. You'll rack your brain to think of boys who had kissed you under the mistletoe, but there weren't any. You'll off yourself.

Happy Mistletoe Day!

Close To You Day!

You think David is dead because he stopped writing. He is not. Your mailman is simply in love with you and he's been hoarding David's letters to you and opening and reading them to find out more about you, find out what sort of man can win your heart. Your mailman is trying to learn who to be so that someone like you might one day wait for letters from someone like him.

First and foremost, your mailman thinks he should become the sort of man who works for an environmental concern in South America. Second, your mailman thinks he should be the kind of fellow that meets the woman he loves for a week's vacation in a province of Canada and then recollects the time he spent there with her in letters written months later. Third, your mailman believes his handwriting could do with some degrees of improvement.

But above all, your mailman knows that he should be the sort of man who has a relationship with a woman that goes well beyond timing his presence at the door of your building to coincide with your departure from the building just so that he might for a few seconds share the small vestibule with you. But he'll be there again today at 8:25 AM, and you'll ask him if there is anything for you and he'll hand you a cellular phone bill. You will be disappointed. He will be standing only eleven inches away from you.

Happy Close To You Day!

The Wart Day!

Today, put Compound W on the wart that's lived on your left index finger knuckle for the past 46 years.

Wait an hour, then start to dig at the base of the wart with a metal nail file. After enough digging, you'll break the seal and you'll be able to get nearer to the belly of the growth. After this point, it's going to start to hurt.

The base of the wart...hang on. You named the wart after the close friend who personifies everything that's wrong with your life. In that, were you a better person you would never call such a terrible fool your friend. Right? Okay, the base of the wart has been dried up and numbed by the Compound W, but the root of the wart was unfortunately untouched by the application because you started digging at it far too early.

It's not your fault. Girls Are Pretty told you to.

So now, you have a wart that's pretty much just resting like a beach ball in a crater right there on your knuckle. With all the digging, what was once a bit unsightly is now downright disgusting. The mound is holding on by just a few sinews of extremely sensitive tissue. Cut it the fuck loose.

You need to shove the rounded blade of the nail file in there. Don't try to slice or dig. Just shove it into the mass like you're pushing through a crowd. The blood should really be flowing now. And you'll be crying and screaming the name of that friend you hate. But just a few more shoves and, though messy, it's out. The wart's gone. 46 years. It's gone. It'll start to grow back immediately.

Happy The Wart Day!

Booth By The Window Day!

It's Sunday again so you're drinking alone. Normally, you'd take the second booth from the back. The one by the newspaper stack so you can leaf through the Sunday entertainment sections. But tonight you wanted to look at faces. Tomorrow you'll remember it more as you waiting for a face, like you made plans to meet someone there. But tonight, as far as you're concerned, you're just sitting in the booth by the window and letting your eyes register the folks passing by.

Down the block, crossing the street towards you, will be Jonathan. It will take you a second, then you'll remember that he had a small part in an awful one-night play you got roped into eight months prior. You shared twenty seven words with him that night and you remember liking him and hoping he might come out to the bar after the show. He did not and you decided he probably did not drink and therefore had nothing in common with you. You forgot about him.

He'll get close enough to hear you knock on the window, but you won't. He'll be close enough for you to see that his is not the face of a man who wants to come in and catch up over a Sunday evening drink. He'll be close enough for you to see that he's broken. You won't put on your coat before you run out after him.

Your gray sweater is a thick one, but it'll still be too cold out for you to leave your jacket in the bar. It'll all be okay in a minute though, you'll think.

You'll have to run half the block before you're within arm's length of him. His pace will be quick. When you can reach out and grab him, you'll hesitate. Then you'll reach out and grab his left hand. He'll wheel around, not like he's going to take a swing, but like he might be getting arrested.

Close up, you'll see his limp cheeks climb back onto their bones with not a little effort. You'll watch him take in your face and go from puzzlement to recognition, then back to puzzlement. He'll say, "Oh, hey. How've you..."

You'll cut him off when your left hand joins your right in holding his left hand tight. You'll squeeze his hand tight in both your hands, then you'll look up and let him know without saying so that he can keep on looking terrible in front of you.

His face will fall and he'll take a deep breath then two steps into your embrace. Eight months ago, you shared twenty seven words. Tonight he'll take two steps into your embrace and you'll stop thinking about how cold it is outside. He'll kiss the side of your head, your cheek, then your lips. Then you'll walk back to the bar with your arms around each other and you'll take a seat in that booth by the window. He'll have a whiskey, thank goodness.

Happy Booth By The Window Day!

Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Living Shit Out Of You Day!

Got a friend named Mark? Then Mark wants to fuck the living shit out of you. It doesn't matter if Mark is married and impotent and you are dead and buried. It doesn't matter if you and Mark are both dudes who are the kind of heterosexual that just end up worshipping every girl you date, without ever once exhibiting the kind of angry womanizing so indicative of borderline closet-cases. It doesn't even matter if Mark is fucking the living shit out of you whilst you read this. Mark still wants to fuck the living shit out of you. Deal with it you big fat baby.

Happy Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Shit Out Of You Day!

Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

The house is full of gray. Gray air, gray faces, gray shirts. Your little sister is dead.

Your mom's hands are the color of the end of the day. They're cold and her arms are all bone. It's better she not hold you for a few months.

Your friends, Derek and Lee, they're going to be knocking on the door any minute now. There's an ambulance in the driveway, but Derek and Lee are only six years old and an ambulance will not tip them off to make like the rest of the neighbors and stand rubbernecking from the edge of their lawns. Derek and Lee will just go ahead and knock on the door to find out why there's an ambulance in the driveway and whether you're still going to come outside to play. You're six years old too, as it happens.

Your Dad and your older sister are the ones in the living room (the couch used to be brown but it's gray) sitting on the couch with the policeman. Your dad is explaining to the policeman in the gray uniform why the wrong pills made your little sister stopped breathing. Your big sister isn't crying.

There's a knock on the door. That'll be Derek and Lee. They're going to ask your Mom whether your little sister is really dead and your Mom's not going to answer. She's just going to shut the door, making a point not to slam it.

Happy Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

Hot Cowboy Day!

You hate the stink of hot cowboy. But you've been DJ'ing this line dancing gig for six years now and it's all that you know how to do.

Also, you're the best.

First time you breathed in some hot cowboy, you brought him home to stay for two years. Two wonderful years that ended the night a bounty hunter burst into your bedroom and ripped his naked swearing body from your arms and dragged him off to honor the word he gave to his bail bondsman.

You swore that night that your sheets would never be tainted with the stench of hot cowboy again. But four years is a long time to go it alone. And you've made some slips along the way, one slip that lasted eight months, another slip that lasted three years and four months. A slip that's driving his truck to Los Angeles as you sit there behind your turntables, spinning like only you know. With every flick of your wrist the booted folks up and down those lines can feel your declarations of never, never again. Hot cowboy just ain't never gonna be cool.

Would you be this good if if didn't make you ache? Is being a linedance DJ all you have, or is being a linedance DJ all you ever wanna be? Linedance DJ gonna stink with fresh hot cowboy on her shirt collar tonight.

Happy Hot Cowboy Day!

Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

He's going to get on a plane to Madrid and you can't go with him past the security gates. Past the security gates, he's going to leave you behind. The love ends here, at Kennedy Airport. So make some small talk with the people in line around you.

"Hi. He's going to send me a letter in three months telling me that he's a different person who's met someone new and he doesn't think we should see each other anymore."

"Hi. He got me pregnant twice. In seventeen minutes, I'll be kissing him for the last time. I'm okay with it I guess. I'm only 20."

"Hi. Did you drop these gloves? One and a half years we've been in love I think. I mean, it was definitely love, but shouldn't I be sobbing or something? In August, we stayed in bed for twelve days straight. That's something, isn't it? Is that something?"

When he is standing at the security gate, looking at his watch, make faster small talk with the people in line around you so you don't make him miss his plane.

"Hi. See him over there? Do you think we look good together? I never thought so. I think I look better with his friend Marcus, honestly. Though I was never attracted to Marcus. But I look better standing next to Marcus. He can fuck like it's gonna end hunger. No not Marcus. Him."

"Hi. Do you speak English? Fuck."

"Hi. Wanna see something cool? I'm going to go kiss my boyfriend goodbye forever. We're not breaking up. He's just going to Madrid. He'll come back, but not to me. Watch this."

Now go to him and wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with all you've got in you. Stick one of your fingernails underneath another of your fingernails to bring tears to your eyes.

Happy Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

Build Clouds Day!

Build four clouds. One from newspapers, one from a soap bubble and the smoke of a cigarette, one from stone, and one from shirts. Then hold the clouds over your bed when it's time for your lover to wake up. When his eyes flutter open and he looks up and sees you waving the clouds over him, say "Wake up sleepyface. What's a matter, too cloudy?" When he laughs, switch clouds. Drop the two in your hands and pick up the two that are sitting on the bed and wave them over the bed in a circular motion. Your lover will ask you to c'mere, in a let's screw kinda way. Don't. Instead, move the clouds around in an even faster circular motion and shout, "Uh oh! Storm front!" Then start spitting on the blanket.

Happy Build Clouds Day!

Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

While the idea is in your head, the sweetness makes your teeth hurt. It goes thusly:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She stiffens with the shock at having heard put into words a point of view she'd always embraced as undeniably true but always imagined to be far too silly to ever think anyone else might feel the same way.

She speaks. You warm, as if an extra pint of blood had suddenly been pumped into your veins, after hearing a sentence that you've been waiting to hear for two years. A sentence that lets you know, without a doubt, you will sleep for eight hours tonight.

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

As you wait for the hours to pass, you wish you could just live in the idea in your head. You know it never works out so sweetly.

And it won't this time either, but by around 7:44 PM tonight, it's gonna be pretty darned tasty. Check it out:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She responds.

She speaks. You respond.

(about a half hour passes without epiphany, or anything you'll even remember, and then at 7:44 PM)

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

What sucks about you is there's still gonna be a little fraction of your heart that's pissed off that all the stiffening and the extra blood pumping never happened and you just went ahead and jumped to the smiling and everything going faggy. What sucks about you is you still won't accept that people only smile when they're too tired to try and look pissed off.

Happy Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

This game was devised thousands of years ago when God created the Earth and he said, "This game is about people meeting people and falling in love with people and making promises to people and creating people who are gonna be people who crave people and search for people or wait for people who meet people and fall in love with people and make promises to people and create people who are gonna yeah yeah this'll be a great game. Now should it be with pieces travelling around the board according to a roll of the dice or should it be more like Checkers? I'll think on it in the bath later."

So don't act like you're cool just because you have a lot of money.

Happy This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!

I'm forty three now, married, a father. Still strange to be saying it. Strange for it to be true for all these years already (five). I guess I'm sort of finishing up things, yes. For so much of my youth, I was clawing into myself, trying to dig out from under the hair and the layers and layers of skin that one thing that will make me golden. There was a greatness inside me, there still is, and I drove myself mad trying to root it out. But it was a squiggly little fucker, slippery and sly, it knew just when to feint my lunge. One day, in my late thirties, I concluded that my hunt for that greatness was its only sustenance, the only thing that kept it alive. So I stopped looking for it and let it die.

Anyway, you know about me and your wife. A year and half we had around 13 years ago. Well, I loved her. And I kept loving her. But unless I became the man I wanted to be, I knew I could never have her. I could not present myself as I was, as I am, a man less than a fraction of who he'd hoped to be, I could not give this man to her. It would have been an insult. But while I was searching for that better man inside of me, I held out hope that one day I would feel that I deserved to take her by the hand.

That day never came and it never will, I've decided. And when I made that decision, with it came acceptance of the fact that your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Yes, I am married, and I am married to a beautiful woman who has given me beautiful children. I repeat, your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Which is why I hope you don't mind my asking you presently, how is she?

Happy Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!

Lately, The Only Time You Put Your Boyfriend Up On A Pedestal Is When You Need To Vacuum Under The Couch Day!

Back in 1999 when you two first started dating, he was up there so much he started complaining about the nosebleeds. It was always, "No darling, don't you worry about a thing. You just plop yourself up on the pedestal and eat this sandwich. I'll go off to work and when I come home I hope you don't mind if I bring some friends and colleagues by to admire you. They'll be quiet."

But the days of giving the baby boy 500 dollars every time you leave the house just to make sure he never wants for anything are long gone. You've been noticing more and more that he has a blemish on his neck and that he eats 40 dollars a week in takeout heroes, which is tiresome because you still can't bring yourself to ask him to work. And that pedestal. The only time it supports anything but your car keys is Saturday evening when it's time to straighten up. But you can't even refer to it as what it once was. You just give him a "Honey, sit on the thingy for a second." And he groans because it's a Barney Miller marathon on TV Land, but you don't love him anymore. Youn don't. You don't love him anymore.

Happy Lately, The Only Time You Put Your Boyfriend Up On A Pedestal Is When You Need To Vacuum Under The Couch Day!

Get Good Lookin' Day!

First, lose the parrot. Next, buy seven bow ties and assign each bow tie to a day of the week, so that if it is Thursday, everyone can be sure you will be wearing your "Thursday Bow Tie." Bein' good lookin' is about more than just doing facial flexes to try and naturally chisel your cheekbones. Bein' good lookin' is about offering coworkers and potential fuckfools a little bit of certainty in this life. "What can I count on in a world where children just disappear without leaving any clues, like my son did. Here's his picture, have you seen him. He'd be 14 by now. I miss him. Nice tie. Oh hey, that's your Thursday tie. It's Thursday! I feel like this big boat we call human existence now has an anchor. Help me with this zipper good lookin'."

Next, and this is just for the guys, wear lavender eyeshadow on one eye.

Happy Get Good Lookin' Day!

Don't Fuck Up The Machine Day!

The machine works. It's refined, oiled, and good. Every part of the machine understands its duty, and every part expects the same of every other part.

"Nex?"

"Chicken broccoli white rice to go."

Good. Right and expeditious. The machine understands that you understand the machine. You are welcome here, as you prepare your exact change of five dollars and twelve cents. You are why lunch sometimes is perfect.

"Nex?"

"Hi are there vegetables in those noodles?"

The man behind you is a threat to the machine. As long as the man behind you is allowed to proposition the machine with a transaction, the machine is in danger of coming to a complete halt. Kill the man behind you with a large metal fork.

"What you do?"

"I've done what is necessary."

"I call police."

The machine has to call the police. The machine can't appear to condone such a crime against society, no matter how necessary it might be to the machine's survival. Watch the server as he dials the three digits of 911. He'll wink, and he'll wait to dial the second 1. He wants you to run. For your own benefit. For the benefit of the machine. Run.

Happy Don't Fuck Up The Machine Day!

Living With AIDS Beats The Shit Out Of Living With Your Parents Day!

At least AIDS doesn't tell you to get a fucking job every five minutes. And if you're living with AIDS, you can bring home babes any time you feel like it. And you don't have to worry about your Dad all of a sudden coming down to use the basement bathroom just so he can get a look at her. And the best thing about living with AIDS is that people think you're awesome just for living. Try to get someone to admire your courage for pushing two of your folks' old couches together and pretending it's a king-sized bed. I'm telling you, you have to get out of that situation. Catch AIDS.

Happy Living With AIDS Beats The Shit Out Of Living With Your Parents Day!

If On Payday Your Boss Insists On Stuffing Your Paycheck Into Your Mouth, Don't Rock The Boat Day!

In today's shit-stained economy, the American dream is all about taking what you can get and clutching it to your chest like it was a Korean baby. So your boss insists on pushing you up against your cubicle wall and forcing your lips and teeth to part and make way for the check bunched up in his fingertips while he twitches his upper lip and says, "Yeahh...yeahhh...uh..." What are you gonna do, sue?

No way they'd fire you. But they'd fire your boss. And they'd dissolve your department. And they'd keep you on for a year or however long it takes to avoid another lawsuit. But after that you can be sure you'd be out of a job. Sure, you might be loaded from the settlement you got in the harrassment suit. But you'll never work in middle management again. And then who will you matter to?

Happy If On Payday Your Boss Insists On Stuffing Your Paycheck Into Your Mouth, Don't Rock The Boat Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Pumpkin Patch Weekend!

It's October, which means Prettygirl has to go to work. Prettygirl only works around 29 to 30 days a year, all in October, and always dressed as a Scarecrow who walks around saying shit to people buying pumpkins and candy apples at the Old Maid's Pumkin Patch. It pays $6.00 per hour. So Prettygirl really only makes around $700 a year. Anyway, since Prettygirl is going to be at work for around 7 hours a day for the next few days, Friday through Sunday are going up all at once so it can be over and done with for God's sake finally.


Sunday, October 5, 2003

Hold Him Close To You And Don't Let Him Go Day!

Today, if you let go of your boyfriend, he'll die. Literally, if you don't keep your arms wrapped tight around your boyfriend, wrapping yourself up in as much of him as you can, his lungs will fill with bile and he'll stop breathing. And it's not like loosening your grip will open the valves and let just a little bit of bile feed into his lungs, then when you hold him tight again his passages will be all cleared up. No, it's really just like you'll be putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Basically, if you loosen your grip just enough, and it's unclear how this is measured, but if you give him just enough wiggle room, his lungs will suddenly flood with bile and within three minutes he'll be brain dead. The only way to keep from killing him is to either steadily increase your grip or never waver in how tight you're hugging him.

This is just like Hands On A Hardbody. Except instead of touching the truck you have to hug it nice and tight, and instead of it being a truck you might win, it's the boy you love with all your heart that you might kill.

Happy Hold Him Close To You And Don't Let Him Go Day!


Saturday, October 4, 2003

She's Locked In The Meat Locker Day!

If you're wondering where your girlfriend is, she's locked in that meat locker over there with the guy everyone thinks she should be with because there's no chemistry between the two of you. I'm sure nothing's going on inside there. I mean, yeah, they probably have to kind of cuddle together to keep warm, but I'm sure it means nothing to her. She's only doing it because she has no choice. Relax, she loves you. She could stay inside that meat locker with the guy everyone, including you, thinks is the right guy for her forever and it wouldn't make any difference. Your love is strong enough to conquer an undeniable need for the one she's supposed to be with.

Anyway, these two strong guys are gonna hold your arms and just make you stand there staring at the locked door for a couple hours. Your girlfriend and the guy she's supposed to be with are locked up in there.

Happy She's Locked In The Meat Locker Day!


Friday, October 3, 2003

Last In Line For Cookies Day!

Today, there are delicious cookies that come out of the oven piping hot. The boy in the front of the line gets the hottest, moistest, most wonderful cookie in the whole wide batch. The boy in the back of the line gets the shittiest cookie. Today, you are the boy in the back of the line. Today, you get the shittiest cookie, if you even get a cookie.

Happy Last In Line For Cookies Day!

Cabride With A One Night Stand Day!

Her sweet tender kiss makes you think that having sex with her tonight
Would be the perfect revenge for that three and a half year old break up you never got over

His kiss tastes like chewed food, so you try to focus all of your concentration
On his erection poking into your hip.

You’re both a little carsick from the alcohol
So you stop kissing, play with each other’s jacket zippers, and start in with the questions

How long have you lived in the city? Are your parents still together? Isn’t it cold out lately?
She says 4 years, they divorced when I was ten, and yes but I kind of like it
But you don’t pay attention
You just watch her profile up against the passing cityscape in the taxicab’s window
You think that she would look good showing up to parties with you

Where did you grow up? What do you want to be? What made you come up and talk to me?
He says New Jersey, a drummer in a band, you look pretty when you sip from a glass
But his answers aren’t important
What’s important is that his hair comes down in front of his eyes
It might be nice to be old and lying in a hospital bed and brushing that hair away to look into those eyes just one last time

Maybe it’s just because this is your very first cabride together, your very first time going home together, the very first time you’ll ever sleep together
That you both can’t help but think that for the two of you, this’ll always be the very first time
Assuming it isn’t the last

The cool night air
Makes you feel that your stomachs have settled
So she climbs atop your lap and you start to kiss some more

And you try not to let on how panicked you are over the fact that your erection disappeared 30 blocks ago
And you’re afraid it might not ever come back again EVER! EVER! EVER!

Happy Cabride With A One Night Stand Day!

You're Just Another Ballerina Day!

Beg him back. And hurry. Think he won't get over you? You're just another fucking ballerina.

For God's sake he's wardrobe. You all come running to him with your frays and your split seams and you beg and plead and cry. He sews it all up, good as new, and it's like all of a sudden you've been handed the Daddy who was never sober enough to make it all better when you fell off your bike, so you fuck the living shit out of him. He's slept with almost every girl in the cast, except for Monica. But that's only because she killed herself before he had the chance.

Beg him the fuck back. And hurry. What you had with him was a love special enough that he'll come back if you get to him in time. But it wasn't special enough that he won't have to run through more than three or four more ballerinas before he can say out loud to himself "guess she must have been just another ballerina."

He's young and he's stupid and he still believes that there's no limit to how many times a man can fall in love (the limit is six).

Happy You're Just Another Ballerina Day!

Finish Your Beers Day!

You by the door.

You in the back.

Down it.

You too. Slap the shit back, ya'll.

Both of you, now, slam your pint glasses down on the faux wood table top.

Slam from the man by the door. Smack goes the lady in the back.

In unison, you hear your clap in stereo. You both look up to ask "what was that?" You both look up into each other's eyes. You both get up, step out from behind your tables, and you give out the grades.

shorter than I'd like but her tiny smile packs a whallop. i hate her tits but love her hips. i just hope she doesn't open her mouth and say she's the one for me.

tall enough but his nose is stupid. however, and this is good because this point is non-negotiable for me, his eyes are prettier than my mother's. his hand's on his belly, i want it on mine. if he's sweet i'll kill him in his sleep and get the hell outta there. tonight.

Now move to each other, move through the bar towards where you got no choice but to keep going to, to the center of the floor, just in front of the waitress' service station, and hold hands. Not like you're gonna be holding hands a year and a half from now on the way to brunch. You, take her left hand in your right. Lift it from her side and watch it. You, watch it too, but also watch him watching it. Watch him watch his thumb glide along the skin of the back of your hand. This is the first time he's doing that. This is the first time he's touching your skin. You haven't even kissed yet.

This is the first time he's touching your skin.

Happy Finish Your Beers Day!