Not so Subtle

by T.W. Albert

Bobby had been nursing the bottle of whiskey for a few hours and now his cheeks were rosy and they matched his Hawaiian shirt. The bottle had slowly but surely run low and as they entered the hotel room Bobby tilted his head back and a frown came over his face. It was empty. He held the bottle over his head and examined it thoroughly, making sure no drops could hide from him. Bobby twisted the bottle in his hands several times, examining it from each angle, but still he couldn’t spot any more liquor. Just to make sure he pulled it up to his lips again. When no sweet burning whiskey hit his tongue, his shoulders dropped. Bobby wiped his clammy hands onto his khaki shorts and slunk down onto the neatly folded bed. Jimmy cast an eye at him.

“What’s eatin you?”

Bobby peaked up for a moment at Jerri, who was laying her hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and playing with her hair. Then he looked at the floor.

“We’re out of booze here.”

“Shit. Well go get some more.”

“Where?”

“I saw a liquor store about a mile and a half back there.”

Jimmy reached into his faded jeans and pulled out his keys and tossed them to Bobby, who missed the catch and bobbled them to the floor. He picked them up then looked glossy-eyed at Jerri.

“What would you like to drink there, missy?”

Jerri had seemed to be in another world and the question brought her back to reality. She shook her head then looked at Bobby.

“What’s that darlin?”

“What would the lady like to drink? Anything your lil’ heart may so deee-sire.”

A cough escaped from Jimmy’s mouth and he didn’t try to conceal it. Bobby shot him a glance and Jimmy coughed again, smirking out the side of his mouth. Jerri just shrugged her shoulders.

“I dunno, whatever you boys are drinkin is good enough for me.”

Bobby slumped down a little bit further in the bed and let the empty bottle of whiskey slip from his grasp. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. With a groan, Bobby sat up from the bed and sauntered over to the door and then pulled on his sunglasses, which hung from a plastic orange band around his neck 24-7.Bobby raised his hand to his hairline and saluted his comrades before leaving the hotel room. When the noise he made going down the hall faded, Jerri sat down on the bed and crossed one leg over the other. She licked her lips with her tongue and looked up at Jimmy, who towered over her.

“So, whatcha wanna do?

Of course Bobby had fallen in love with Jerri the moment that he had laid eyes on her. He’d seen her dance in the bar back in March and from that point on, he made a point of getting to the Kicking Mule half an hour before it even opened. You never knew what time she might come on to dance and Bobby didn’t want to take the chance of missing a second of her performance. Now as he started up Jimmy’s truck and pulled out of the hotel lot, a part of him yearned to stay. He hated having her out of his sight even for a minute. Here she was, finally with him in a hotel like he’d daydreamt of so many times before, all the things that could happen, all the scenarios flashing before his eyes like a movie. Anything can happen in a hotel. But now he was driving away and his gut pulled backwards on him as he gunned the engine and brought the old truck back onto the highway. The tug grew stronger the further he got away from Jerri; he needed to be near her. A corner of his foggy mind resented Jimmy for sending him on this errand, for always sending him on errands. For once why didn’t Jimmy go? But he quickly forced the thought down. He loved Jimmy, maybe more than he loved his own self. He’d do anything for him and that’s how Jimmy knew that he loved him. Soon that’s how Jerri would know, too.

Bobby pushed his foot down on the accelerator and the truck’s engine roared louder. The headlights illuminated the trees, the bends in the road, the yellow lines curving and to the left or the right. He swayed from side to side and felt the whiskey sloshing around inside of him. Bobby felt a sense of duty and responsibility; it felt good to be having to do something. Heck. Somebody had to get more booze and who better than me? Nobody. Yes. He’d get some more whiskey and feed Jerri another shot or two or three. Then, he’d tell her just how bee-yoo-ti-ful she looked, how her voice reminded him of Dolly Parton, how her eyes made his heart melt like a snow cone on a sunny day in Mexico. Then she would be his. Nobody can resist the charm of Bobby A. Valentine.

Bobby got the booze easily enough. The liquor-store owner didn’t care much for selling hard liquor to an obviously intoxicated driver, but business is business. He dropped the bottle into a brown paper bag and then handed it to Bobby who stumbled out the front door and back into the truck. The drive back to the hotel seemed to take twice as long as getting there did. Before turning the key in the ignition, Bobby unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a swig. Periodically, he sipped at the whiskey again as he drove. By the time he arrived back at the hotel he had the hiccups.

Bobby tried the handle of room number 116 and a Russian looking man wearing a bathrobe and a frown answered.

“What want do you?”

“Oh. Sorry. Must be the wrong room.”

“You wake me up for this? Wrong room! It’s not telephone number. Not hard to remember, get out of here!”

“Well Jeeeeesus I said I’m sorry! I had a little bit much too drink…” Bobby pinched his thumb and index fingers together to indicate just how much. “and I got lost.”

“Fucks I don’t give! Get out!” The man shouted and slammed the door shut in Bobby’s face.

“Well that was mighty rude.”

Eventually he remembered that they had gone up a flight of stairs after checking in and he found room 216 after quite an adventure. Bobby knocked on the door as he leaned his weight against it, using it as a brace to keep himself standing up. Saliva dripped from his lips as he giggled and peered into the viewing hole from the wrong side

“Jimmy! Jimmy open up! I got lost on the way to the room!”

He realized that he was still wearing his sunglasses and he took them off now and moaned; the glare of the fluorescent lighting hit his eyes like a bomb going off. Bobby knocked again on the door and called for Jimmy. Finally after what seemed like an eternity and a half to a drunk, the door pulled open. Jimmy grabbed Bobby by the arm and yanked him into the room and chided him.

“Keep it down Bobby, shit. Some people are tryin to get some closed-eye.”

Jerri was lying on top of the covers, her boots now removed. Her golden hair was mangled and knotted and she was smoking a cigarette and staring at the television. She didn’t notice Bobby coming in and kept staring blankly at the program. Something about a serial killer, one of those cop shows that are on eighteen times a day. The way she looked, sitting there with one knee up and her eyes glazed over hit Bobby in the chest. It’s true what they say, he thought. Time apart does make the heart grow fatter. The longing feeling in his chest suddenly sank down to his stomach, started doing somersaults, pounded at Bobby’s insides like a hammer on sheet metal. He hiccupped again and laid the bottle of whiskey down on the desk before announcing to them:

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You do that.”

Jimmy guided his partner to the pristine white door and led him inside the commode. Everything was a perfectly pure white; the tiled floor, the towels hanging from their racks, the sink, even the tiny bars of soap. Bobby wondered if he was in heaven. The growling in his gut called him back down to earth though and he lurched over the toilet. Jimmy looked into the mirror hanging over the sink; his eyes were tired and his hair was greasy from the trip and the sweat of the long night. He was in no mood to hold Bobby’s hair back while he puked even though he had done it thirty six times before. Instead he shook his head and poured a glass of water and set it down on the floor next to Bobby.

“Lemme know when you’re done there, cowboy.”

He patted Bobby on the back and headed into the bedroom where Jerri was waiting. Bobby called out to him but his voice was lost in the porcelain bowl, falling short of Jimmy’s ears.

“Buddy, hold on. Hold on there. Hold on. I’m gonna make a move on that pretty blonde out there. Just gimme a minute.”

Red and yellow chunks of god-only-knows what came spewing out of Bobby’s mouth then, settling into the shallow toilet water and spinning around in the current. More vomit followed in streaks and spews. All the while, Bobby moaned and gasped for breath. He tried breathing through his nose like he’d been taught but he couldn’t stand the smell and so almost suffocated every time he puked. This was one of the worst he’d ever had. Through the fog of his memory Bobby went back to all the times he’d bent over a porcelain throne and let loose his insides. It ranked right up there, definitely in the top ten all time. Whiskey on an empty stomach always tended to do that. The popcorn, spicy wings and jalapeno poppers at the Mule hadn’t done much in the way of filling him up and so the whiskey was free to do what it willed.

Bobby moaned and tried to catch his breath. The sound of the TV floated in through the crack under the bathroom door. It had to be some kind of car chase scene; there were wailing sirens and screeching tires and gunshots going off. There was another sound that Bobby couldn’t quite make out though. Something squeaking. What was that? He strained his ears towards the bedroom but his stomach lurched again and he quickly crowded back over the toilet. Bobby’s vomit now painted the sides of the toilet, spraying behind the seat and a little on the floor. He wheezed and rubbed his fingers over his temples slowly.

“Oh god. Oh god.”

Definitely in the top ten all time.

“Oh GAWD! OH MY GAWD! AHHHH!”

Bobby squinted and spit into the toilet. That last comment hadn’t come from his mouth. What in the…

“OH YES! YEEEEYES GAWD!” … the exclamation repeated.

So they were doing it. Right next-door while he had his head in the toilet, they were doing it. Bobby nodded his head slowly and let the knowledge seep into him slowly. He sniffed and wiped at his nose and whimpered into the toilet bowl.

“I told ‘im. I told ‘im I was gonna make a move. Damnit Jimmy…”

The scene played out like a cheap porn movie in Bobby’s head. There was cheesy jazz music playing in the background. Jimmy Jared Jenks was wearing a pizza apron and delivering to the room when the gorgeous, lonely Jerri answered the door. Soon they were touching, caressing each other without a thought for anyone else in the world. Then they were on the bed, ripping their clothes off, groaning like heathen animals. Jimmy Jenks was thrusting his thick cock in between Jerri’s legs and she was screaming now and scratching her long nails into his back.

“OH MY SWEET GAWD YES!”

Bobby swiped at the glass of water Jimmy poured for him and knocked it over. The water flooded down the floor and wetted the knees of his pants, but he didn’t care. Bobby reached his arm up and cradled the side of the bowl and pretended he was petting Jerri’s hair. It was so smooth and so pure just the way he imagined it. She was soft and gentle and didn’t move an inch. Bobby cried but he was grateful that the Jerri toilet let him pet her throughout the night.

Cruel sunlight found its way through the bathroom window and into Bobby’s eyes, rousing him awake. He groaned as he felt a horrible headache every time he moved. Bobby rose from the floor, almost slipping on the spilt water and vomit, but managed to pull himself up and escape the bathroom. Slowly he trudged into the bedroom where he saw Jimmy and Jerri asleep in the bed. Her arm was draped over his chest and he was snoring comfortably. Bobby sniffed and reached for the bottle of whiskey, which was still on the desk, where he’d left it the night before. He glared at them, took a drink and spit.

©  Tim Weaver 2007

I have no taste for my novel this week. I forced myself to write something today. I came up with this.

FREEEEE WRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE

Love lorn late light loot lust lamp loop less lent lint lepper leaving likely limitless longing lately, lord.

Apple and anchor acorn another again about attest astound appease appeal apart appropriate appendix angel angle.

Boxing boring barely bobbing throbbing gobbling into the purple colored abyss where the fish people dwell that suffered for many eons under the rule of a loathsome king who had only three fingers on each hand.

Have hate hot hike hair hanging hoping to have a single day in the sun with her before it’s too late to leave for Denver except for in my dreams.

Neither of us were prepared for that moment when our pink appendages were pushed together and so quickly, we pulled them apart.

Lightning strikes!!! From nowhere, seemingly into an open meadow, somehow finding the lowest possible point on the ground. Ants sizzle and bake and one of them thinks he has become a God, begins bossing the other busy bees around until he meets with his fate at the hands of a giant golden anvil. Try as he might, he cannot lift the weight of the burden of hate and he broods and digs into the dark soil where he weeps alone for many years.

The first word here is the most essential; the most telling of all in these exercises; the lorn love that of late I have desperately trying to evade. A burden more heavy handed than that hopeless ant struggling against the anvil; it hurts the heart much more than hate, but do any of us really know what that mindless pumping bleeding blob really wants? I whisper this to him in ant language but I don’t know if he can understand.

It has been obvious to me what my heart wants for too long for it to be true anymore-

By the time the injured ant returns to the surface I imagine this quandary will be resolved. For I have no fear anymore of what will come but only of what will not: I say this to the ant but this time he nods his antennae and I’m overjoyed that at least somebody understands. He trembles under the weight of the truth, returns to the soil.

I am still casting all of my nets onto the southeast side of the swan shaped boat. This is much like putting all my eggs into one… bucket I am told. But this is the way I am, I try to explain to the girl in the neighborhood bar who has been leaning her breasts on my arm for the last forty five minutes and claiming how glorious it must be to be a writer. I snicker and swallow another drink. My contempt for her crawls up through the crevices inside and manifests in a sneer when she says I should find other swans to go swimming with, as many as I can, in fact. Her wisdom is sound but I reject it.

What’s that bumper-sticker say? If you’re not outraged, then you’re not paying attention? Something like that. I’m trying hard to block these kinds of things out but there are some items that I just can’t ignore. This being one of them. Stop and Question Authorization.

Just like a coward, to throw one final parting shot as he leaves office. It’s a spit in the face to the citizens of Britain and to everyone in the free world. Tony Blair, thank you for staying true to yourself. At least we know where you stand. One might have taken the course of apologizing for egregious mistakes before leaving. One might have tried to make some amends for contributing to the greatest international political disaster of our time. Nope. Blair stays true to form and essentially authorizes the Gestapo as he walks out the door. I sincerely hope that a door laden with razor sharp spikes does not hit him on the way out.

It makes me worry.

I have my own problems, of course. We can’t allow ourselves to be crippled by grief or rage at the current situation. We still have to get up, brush our teeth and go to work every day, knowing the horror taking place in our name. We can escape it for a while, watching a movie, having a drink, but it’s still there. At what point do we stop going about our normal routines? What will it take?

I’m telling you this now. If Tony Blair has the balls to pull something like that on his way out, just imagine what King George has in store for us before January 20, 2009. I shudder at the thought. The President is becoming increasingly isolated. Popular opinion is firmly against him and soon his own party will be forced to break bonds with his disastrous policies in order to salvage their careers. I worry what this will make George W. Bush do. Over seven years he has proven to be a childish, frantic, stubborn bully, not unlike an animal. That animal has never been backed into a corner like this and it’s only going to get worse. Weak as the opposition party is, he knows his time is limited. Animals are the most dangerous when you back them into a corner. While it’s hard to imagine how much worse it could get, I’m sure that it’s only just begun. Mark my words. We have yet to see the worst of this President.

It makes me worry a great deal.

I know that I have gone on this rant before but every day that passes by, it gets more dangerous. We are killing perhaps a few hundred “terrorists” in Iraq every week. At the same time, we are creating a few thousand. This problem is not going to end the minute Bush is out of office. (Provided he doesn’t declare martial law and actually DOES leave office when he’s supposed to.) I can see now that this is going to be the defining conflict of our generation. This is our Vietnam. This is our World War and it is going to last for decades to come. I’m not just worried about my own life or my friends or my family, I’m worried about my future children. I’m worried about Generation Z. Is it coincidence that this is the last letter of the alphabet? If we continue on this course, then at least we will not have to worry about what to name the generation after that.

I’m trying hard not to scream, not to cry. How did people in the cold war not tear their hair out and run for the mountains? How do people in that dark corner of the world not urinate themselves daily?

I may as well grow a scraggly beard and sling a billboard over my shoulder that declares “the end is near.” By 2012 it will be the only past-time that has any meaning.

I’ve got to run away, I’ve got to get away from the pain you drive into the heart of me…

Stumbling. After the 5th round on the 5th day out of 6 days of this. Told therapist that I was struggling with a drinking problem. Twenty minutes after leaving I was in a bar again, drinking again. Because, why not? News snippets from the most shameless network of all, NBC: The long term risks of college age drinking. Gee. I did not know this was not good for me. Thank you for that insightful reporting, cocksuckers.

I have officially decided that I don’t mind Scrubs, but still despise Zach Braff… as well as hipsters.

Five foot seven queen wearing seventeen inch platforms and striped short shorts looks at me weird when I look at him weird. I think to myself in this moment… I hate everyone.

Try not to be emotionally selfish for the day. Was successful for most of the time, I think. Most recent interpersonal revelation: the world doesn’t revolve around me and it’s unattractive to think it does. Sometimes.

I cannot experience without exposition. Instead of simply enjoying the view, smiling as I watch a smashed chick in tight black give lap dances to her guy friends, I think of how I’m going to write it one day, how I’ll fit it into a story. Fucking fruitless passivity. I better become a millionaire writer one day otherwise I’ve wasted a good part of my life.

This gave me an idea.
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/elie_wiesel_mortified_after

Every few years I feel that I make a push in my writing ability. It’s not a sudden thing. It takes months of hard work and dedication, tireless writing, reading and reviewing my own work as well as others. Sometimes I go back and read stories that I wrote months ago in order to test myself. If I think the story is shit after the first few lines, then I know that I have improved. Think of it as going Super-Saiyin for writers. A new level of skill and/or prowess. Yes. I am that nerdy. Anyway.
Every writer has thrown away everything they’ve written at some point. Now, I didn’t go that far this time. In fact, I decided to keep a good portion of what I’ve done over the last 2 years. (My last purge resulted in the obliteration of all my fiction from my first 2 years at Columbia and high school.)

So, what do I have to show for it? 7 stories. 7 stories that I feel are good, that have withstood the test of time. Most of them were my favorite pieces in a certain class that I spent alot of time re-writing on. They’re the stories that I’ve sent out to be published or gotten published in e-zines or anthologies and what not. I think that’s actually pretty good for 4 years. 7 really good stories and a novel in progress.

Over the summer if I manage to pry myself from the Outlaw I hope to revisit some of the pieces I felt were worth keeping. I felt they had potential and could be good if I revisited them, knowing what I know now.

Every single rant that I wrote about being lonely, depressed or anxious is gone now. Just gone. I may still write these as a form of therapy but at least now I know better than to keep them lying around.

I feel like an ass now for talking about “my art” at length. I need desperately to get out of art school.

Something goes right! I usually hate getting called before noon- take note, my friends- I will not answer if I know who you are and may not call back if you do call me before noon without prior arrangement. Anyway, today I decided to actually answer the phone when it rang at 9:45 and I’m glad I did. It was the mortgage place I interviewed at last week.

I got a new job, starting tomorrow. It’s much closer to my place and pays more. Woot!

Today I opened a fortune cookie that read: Now everything will come your way.

I set my alarm clock for 7:11 AM tomorrow morning.

It’s time for some luck to fall this way, no?

GO BULLS!

Where did you get these?

“Where did you get these, Anthony?”

The voice jarred Box from his dream and his eyelids fluttered open. His mother was standing over his bed with a cold expressionless look on her face, forged through decades of child rearing. With her right hand, she held Box’s new pair of shoes over him and the other balanced firmly on her hip. Mrs. Vargas dangled the exquisite sneakers over him and watched him closely. Box squinted at the shoes and his mind raced for an answer, rousing him and making him quite alert when only moments before he had been sound asleep. He cleared his throat.

“I bought em, mama.”

“Really. With what money, Anthony? Where did you get it?”

Again he searched frantically for an answer but found none. Keep it simple and maybe she will just drop it.

“I worked for it.”

“Oh? Since when you have a job? Where do you work?”

“Who cares? I was working! Damn!”

Mrs. Vargas’ hand flashed out quicker than the speed of sound and struck her son across the face. Then she leaned down and pushed the size 11 basketball shoes down into his chest.

“Don’t you curse! You know better than that, not in my presence. Now tell me where you got these from and remember I no raise you to be a liar.”

“Alright I’m sorry, shit!”

Her hand was even faster this time and it made Box hold his cheek, now pink and stinging. A tear welled up in his eye above the mark and he pushed it down with all of his might. He imagined the tear as a lonely, delicate flower in a meadow that needed to be trampled beneath a heavy army boot. Can’t let it up. Can’t let it survive.

“I… I…”

“You stole them. Little thief.”

“I didn’t steal shit, mama I worked for em!”

“And now you lie to my face.”

Mrs. Vargas slapped him again and then spat onto his wall. Just beneath Box’s G-Unit poster, the spit struck and slowly slid down the plain, beige wallpaper. In much the same way, several rain drops trickled down the bedroom window. Box’s tearing eyes ran away from his mother’s glare and searched for solace in the view. Outside the Chicago sky was gray and threatening more rain, the heavy wind screeched and rattled at the windowpane. Mrs. Vargas paced but kept her eye on her son.

“My Anthony, a liar and a thief now. Just like you no good cousins. I want you out of my house right now.”

Anthony Vargas’ lip quivered for a second and he bit down on it. His mother shouted at him now, her face turning red and her tangled black hair tossing with the force of her words.

“Out! Now!”

“But mama! I didn’t do nothing!”

Before he could protest again she had him by the ear. As she yanked him from his bed he bit down on his lip, breaking the skin. The salty metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth and again he thought of Ronny in the alley. This was all his fault. Mrs. Vargas led him out of his room and into the hallway. Effortlessly, she stepped over the scattered toys of her younger sons and daughters while Box tripped over them, wrenching his ear even more. He faintly pleaded but she heard none of it. Still clutching him by the ear, she led him past his sister Jacky who was cooking in the kitchen and keeping her eyes on the floor, past little Dominic and Marta playing with their trains on the floor, past his grandfather reading the paper in his chair and not moving an inch. Nobody seemed to notice the commotion at all, Box’s cries falling on deaf ears.

Mrs. Vargas opened the front door and pushed Anthony outside into the wind and the rain. She scolded him again and threw his shoes at him before slamming the door shut. Box blocked the blow of the sneakers with his arm, then hung his head. The boot was stomping furiously at the flower now, but it sprung up even taller and more vibrant after each blow. At last it bloomed and Box began to cry. He laced up his Air Zoom Max Sevens and fastened his jeans to his ankles with a pair of worn rubber bands.

Wiping the accursed tears from his eyes, Box stomped down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He walked for an hour with no particular destination in mind. His feet scraped the dark wet sidewalk and he hung his black hood down over his head to keep out the slight drizzle. The fresh spring air invaded his nostrils; the putrid stink of a thousand plants and trees coming to life. Box spit more blood out of his mouth that had collected from the cut in his lip. In his heart he cursed Mrs. Vargas. He cursed her for kicking him out, for not understanding how bad he needed those shoes, for calling him Anthony and especially for loving his siblings more than him. Bet you Alberto could rob a whole chain of banks and she wouldn’t kick HIM out. Box kept walking aimlessly towards the equator; ignoring everything and everyone that he passed. Blocks went by filled with passing cars, pedestrians, trees, lights and houses but he paid no attention to any of them. When at last he raised his head to get his bearings he received a shock. Box had been walking for so long that he had gone two blocks past Armitage and now he was right on the border of The Snakes’ territory.

Box could feel a thick tension in the air; it was like two gigantic magnets being forced apart by some invisible force of hate. On the one hand he felt a pull to turn around, to go back north to safety. But that also meant turning back towards home. In spite of the inherent danger, he felt compelled to go on. Anything could happen. Inside his jean pocket, Box fingered his knife. Maybe he would run into some Snakes. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. He stood waiting for a stoplight to turn green and he pondered whether to turn around or to go on. It was the first time in a long time he couldn’t make up his mind easily. When the light turned green though, he felt his feet stepping one in front of the other, pushing him deeper into trouble. After a few minutes he began to worry though. Shopkeepers who saw him coming down the block quickly rushed back inside their stores and Box began noticing ominous signs. On either side of him the walls became wicked, painted with messages intended for him.

On a garage door:

Str8 Latin Killa

On the chipped brick of an apartment building:

The letters SLSS crossed out with a red X, the paint dripping down like blood from a wound.

As he trudged on the invisible tension grew even greater. The thick, suffocating feeling bore down and squeezed his chest. All at once he felt himself turning around and wondering out loud.

“What the fuck am I doin here?”

Box had found himself waiting for another stoplight to change but this time he turned around. A few yards from the intersection an alley crossed across the sidewalk, connecting to the street. Quickly Box rushed towards it, intending to turn into it and take the alleys back north. But before he reached it a black Cadillac Escalade pulled out and blocked his path. The enormous vehicle rattled in rhythm with its bass. Box instantly recognized the song strumming out of its powerful speakers as Ludacris.

“I got my twin glock forties, cocked back…”

Slowly the Escalade pulled to a halt and Box felt his knees turning into jello. He saw the reflection of the budding trees and his own horrified expression in the driver’s side window. His heart nearly skipped a beat as the glass rolled down. Finally the driver came into view: he had a shaved head and an angry look on his face as he fingered a thick, black goatee. He eyed Box, who breathed a sigh of relief. It was only Paco.

“Damn Paco you can’t just roll up on a nigga like that. I almost cut you.”

“Get your ass in this car, foo. Don’t you know where you are?”

Box obeyed his cousin and stepped in. The vehicle screeched out of the alley and turned onto the street; burning rubber as it turned north. Chango was in the passenger’s seat shaking his head and smoking a cigarette. He snickered.

“You got a death wish or something?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Reading went pretty well. I am published officially. I guess I was already published before online, but this is the 1st time in print, I believe. Yey. I’ll give y’all info on Asphalt when it becomes available to me.

So I threw up on the train last night. That was pretty rad.

“The first step to becoming a writer is to admit that you are powerless over alcohol and your life has become unmanageable.”

…

There is no cause for alarm as far as the Bulls are concerned. Detroit has home court advantage and they’re very tough to beat there. It would be nice if they were at least competing and not getting beat by more than 15. But, this is the 1st time we’ve been to this level with this group. Before the season started I said that if we made it to the 2nd round, then the season is a success. Next year we’re going to make an even bigger splash once we have more experience and for the love of god, hopefully, a postup scorer. Until then, go Spurs.

Cornucopia. As in romantic opportunities available to me, as according to my horoscope.

I don’t know, the word itself sounds to me like some kind of freakish 4 day long gay food festival. *Bad imagery* bad.

So I went to this local bar on Saturday and this trashed chick was all like “Tim is my FAVORITE name.” and “you’re such an original person,” and etc. Even though she was frighteningly inebriated, I soaked it up. Unbeknown to me, her fiancee had been sitting 10 feet behind us the entire time. For two hours she had pawed me and I was unaware of this. See: intense stare of jealousy. See: awkward. See: my response, apparent in my slight shrug of the shoulders: dude, she grabbed me, whatchu want ME to do?

Such is about as exciting as my love life gets these days. Her twin sister and ginger friend left soonafter my escort vomited. Oh well.

To be fair, I’ve never felt better about myself before. Perhaps it takes getting knocked on your ass every Sunday morning to really make you discover who you are and what you want. I’m either hallucinating or closer to God, take your pick. He assures me that everything will work out in the end. This is quite the relief, considering I owe 80 grand and because I have no permanent disability, will not be able to sue the dyke surgeon who nearly ended my life. See: Oh well, again.

Come to think of it, I don’t really want to have a permanent disability. On one of the lawyer sites I came across it listed big settlements: 7 million for the kid who lost their hearing, 9 million for the woman who lost a foot, etc.

I’m lucky. I guess.