Tuesday, January 30, 2024, 7:21 pm
Magnificent wiener
Some mornings, it’s simply a treat to wake up...
With a firm...
Hot dog...
In between her buns.
dilletantism, romanticism, charlatanism
Some mornings, it’s simply a treat to wake up...
With a firm...
Hot dog...
In between her buns.
With no further ado, and without fanfare, I present the books read in 2023.
Oh, the games we play with ourselves!
For instance, I excel at hiding things from myself. Truly!
And I tell myself I HATE when I do this.
Yet, clearly I do not. For why would I continue to play a game that I hate? Is that not… madness?
I must love the mystery in rediscovering what safe place I decided to store that item.
I must. What fun!
Well, I avoided Whamhalla. Yet, it’s kind of a hollow victory. Because I do like the song.
It’s a great pop song, about unrequited love, which I happen to know a little about. Avoiding it stripped a bit of the joy of the holiday season.
I can say I survived Whamaggedon 2023, for the novelty of it, and to say it IS possible. But in the future, I don’t think I’ll play.
I awoke with a start. Someone was banging on the door. Hard.
“Jesus,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”
The clock on the nightstand confirmed it was just after three in the morning.
The banging persisted. Whoever it is, they want in.
I slide out from the warm covers and reach for a pair of jeans. Boxers. Anything. I fumble for the light switch before cracking open the door to peer outside. “Shit,” I think to myself. “I know these guys.”
Larry and his father push their way in.
“Where is she?” Larry demands.
“Where is who?”
“Don’t be a jackass. We know she’s been sneaking out at night. Her friend, Misty, suggested we check here.
“You’ve got quite a reputation in town,” Larry’s father accused.
“I’m sorry, sir. If you’re talking about Elsie, she did meet me several hours ago at the Century Club,” I replied, surprisingly calmly. “But we didn’t leave together.”
My composure was solid. I’d been expecting this confrontation. Elsie is an incredible girl, beautiful, witty and a sensational body. Yet, she’s also a nineteen-year-old Jehovah Witness girl. What’s a 22-year-old guy to do?
“She’s not here,” I finished. “Go ahead and look around.”
Larry is still visibly filled with rage, but I’ve denied him the satisfaction of venting it on me. His father looks resigned. Age and experience, I suppose.
I wouldn’t know. My veins are still pulsing from the intrusion. Yet somehow, I’ve never been so calm when confronted. I’m sizing them up. I’m twice Larry’s size, and his dad is... old. But, two against one? I’m not confident this will end in my favor if it escalates.
They both wander around the apartment. Larry peeks into the bedroom, but doesn’t go in.
“Larry, we’ve been looking for a while. Maybe we missed her, and she’s home now,” Larry’s father offered.
“Maybe.” Larry’s not convinced.
His dad turned to me, “Look here, you little shit, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but if you ARE seeing my daughter, that ends now. Got it?”
I’ve been confronted like this before. I have to suppress my usual “shit-eating” grin, so I look down. “Yes sir,” I say.
“Good,” Larry says. “If we have to come back here...”
“Got it,” I said, not letting him finish. Now, I’m annoyed. It’s late. Irritation has replaced my tiredness. Who knows if I’ll be able to get back to sleep?
“She’s too good for you,” Larry’s father finishes.
“She is,” I agree. “And she’s not here. And I have to work in the morning, so I think you should leave.” My temper slipped a notch.
After one more cursory glance around the apartment, they both move towards the door. Slowly.
“You’re not to see her again. Remember that,” Larry said as I closed the door behind them.
As I slid the deadbolt, the adrenaline begins to subside.
Damn, there was nearly a fight. In my own place.
Damn.
There’s movement. From the shadows next to the bedroom window, she emerges, wrapped in a bedsheet. My god, she’s so beautiful.
“Elsie, honey,” I start. “We need to talk...”
There is a quote by the late George Sanders:
My own desire, as a boy, was to retire.
This is my desire as well. I want to be wealthy. Stupid wealthy. And lazy. I don’t want to do anything for this wealth.
And I don’t want to get old. At least not before the wealth happens. There are far too many twenty-something women out there.
Will my life change dramatically when this occurs? No. Resoundingly no.
I will still spend the majority of my day reclined. Probably reading. Or napping. Just elsewhere. Anywhere.
Because I am lazy. If only I could afford it.
Her name is Danielle. At least that’s what she told me.
And on a night seventeen years ago, she told me I was undateable. That didn’t stop us from having some fun. A lot of fun. That wasn’t the point.
I’m still undateable, although now it’s by choice. I don’t want to marry. I don’t even want to date. I don’t want to regularly threaten my peace. My solitude.
Is that strange? Really, is it?
It’s a rare soul who is comfortable in a room. Alone. With no distractions.
Many nights, I’m comfortable with Pascal’s torment.
Yet not all. I still have wants. Needs. Desires.
And there are so many beautiful women out there. With their wants. Needs. Desires.
When she walks into the room, our eyes meet. We both know what we want. We both know we can have the other. Pure love radiates between us, bringing the temperature up in the room ever so slightly.
No, I’ll never be your husband. I’ll never be your boyfriend.
But I’ll be your lover... forever.
Yes. I’d like that. Very much.
Come. Into my world. It’s fantastic here.
My body hurts so bad, I don’t want to move.
Yet... if I don’t move—today, or tomorrow, or this week—my body will continue to hurt. And weaken. And hurt more.
What happened to the walker? The runner? All of the press-ups?
Where is that guy?
If you like her—and I do, like her—there is really only one guideline before hitting “Send.”
Will it make her smile?
Okay. Hit “Send.”