I woke up today and I didn’t want to go to work. So I said to myself ‘Self, figure out how to not go to work AND get paid today.’

Thank science for PTO time.

I slept two hours later than usual, and was on my way to have lunch with my pal Jordan when I found out what kind of man I am: midwestern.

See, my tire hit something in the road or had a slow leak or something, but it popped and went flat. So I had to pull over and change my tire. If I were like Dave Barry, I’d be writing about how hard and difficult it was, how much I hate getting dirty, and bitching about why I couldn’t just pay someone to change it for me.

But I’m not like Dave Barry.

I pulled my tire iron and jack out and was glad that I paid attention when my dad’s truck blew a tire when I was twelve. I went to work on that sucker, and 20 minutes later had the spare tire on, the old tire on the back, the jack folded up in my back seat, and went and enjoyed a well deserved lunch buffet at Valentino’s.

Tonight, feeling inspired, I went and cleaned my car out, finally removed and assembled my bike from the back end, filled my tires to their correct 35 lbs of air, and replaced my thoroughly beaten floor mats.

I’m on a goddamn roll. Nothing can stop me. Don’t even try. I’ll take you out.

F’real.

Have you ever been laying on a floor, talking to another person, while you each lie in opposite directions so it appears as if the other person is upside down? When that happened, when this happens, focus directly on their mouth the same way you would on their eyes were you both sitting up or standing.

It’s as though their mouth is a third eye in their forehead.

I want you to read this standing up.

I want you to read this upside down.

I want you to read this doing handstands.

This is all to say, that I want you to read this from a different point of view.

I want your perceptions and I want your opinions, because at this point, I don’t know what happened to mine. I want to see things in my world from your third eye.

Case in point: I’ve been thinking about my parents a lot lately. There was a realization that I don’t know them very well.

I know who they were. I know what they were like ten, fifteen years ago even. But Before that and for the more recent years I am perplexed. There aren’t a lot of stories of things they did or places they went. There aren’t stories of them growing up. They don’t have hobbies.

It perplexes me.

I suspect my confusion comes from being too much like my father. He’s a quiet man, you see. I too, am a quiet man. I don’t always know what to say when surrounded with people. I don’t know how to open my mouth and open myself up. I know how to sit and listen. I know how to accept. I want to learn how to share.

My memories of my father are very similar. Constantly driving places, him in the driver seat, I in the passenger, and dead silence. It was that way when I was seven. It was that way when I was seventeen. At 21, it’s still no different.

I want to know my dad, but I don’t how to start. Let me tell you what I do know about him:

He was born in Council Bluffs in 1948, the son of a railman I never met and my Grandma Bette, the sweetest woman I’ve ever known. His father died when he was 18 during an accident at the railyards. He went on to school at Wayne State College in Wayne, NE where he got his degree in Education. He met my mom while teaching at Bloomer School in Council Bluffs, they married in 1977, and in 1981 had their first child, me.

I’ve never really talked to my dad about his father, my grandfather, who I never met. I can only imagine what losing him at such an age did to my dad. In some ways I think it’s effected our father-son relationship as my dad doesn’t have a model to follow after that age. I don’t know. Perhaps I’m rambling.

It’s been said that our fathers are our models for God. I would agree with that. The idea of God is a mystery to me. My father is a mystery to me. There’s an absurd kind of synchronicity in that. My father is approachable and tangible, and yet I don’t know how to start knowing him.

I want to know what my father loved.

I want to know what my father loves.

I want to hear the culmination of his life experiences.

I want to know about all the things he did and thought, and the things he does and feels.

I want to hear about the mistakes he made and how he learned from them.

I don’t want to sit in silence around him and not learn. I don’t want to sit in silence with him and not share. I don’t want to do that with *anyone* ever again.

If your father is your model for God, and you don’t know him, how could you ever know God? I ask this, given my history of atheism, in all sincerity. I’m not the angry atheist I once was. While true, I have no faith still, I’m not trying to talk about that now. I’m past the angry stage of that.

The anger I have now, is directed inward more. I’m angry at myself for not knowing how to talk to the man. I’m angry at myself because I can sit down and write about this, but I don’t know how to do anything about it.

This isn’t just about my dad. This is about me and how I don’t know how to know people. This is about me and how I don’t know how to verbally share myself. This is about me and how I want to be able to talk to you about everything and I don’t know how to do that.

I want to share the world through my third eye.

Posted by bill at April 26, 2003 11:47 AM

If you close the door

The night could last forever

Leave the sunshine out

And say hello to never

All the people are talking and they’re having such fun

I wish this could happen to me

But if you close the door

I’ll never have to see the day again

But if you close the door

The night could last forever

Leave the wine glass out

And drink a toast to never

Someday I know someone will look into my eyes

And say ‘hello, You’re my very special one’

But if you close the door

I’ll never have to see the day again

Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars

And people on subways and trains

Looking grey in the rain as they stand disarrayed

Oh but people look well in the dark

If you close the door

The night could last forever

Leave the sunshine out

And say hello to never

Someday I know someone will look into my eyes

And say ‘Hello, You’re my very special one’

But if you close the door

I’ll never have to see the day again

I’ll never have to see the day again (once more)

I’ll never have to see the day again

-After Hours; The Velvet Underground (and incidentally, my favorite V.U. song)

I just witnessed the most horriffic thing in the entire world.

I was in need of groceries and some new socks, so I went to the only place in town that you can get groceries and socks at, at 11 O’clock at night- Wal-Mart.

They had a large group of elementary school aged children stocking shelves there.

‘Wait a second, Bill!’ you’re thinking to yourself. ‘Did you say 11 O’clock?’

I did.

Everyone knows that Wal-Mart has any army of children working for them overseas. That’s common knowledge. Who else makes your Kathy Ireland padded bras and Olsen Twins clothes? But to see this flagrant disregard of child labor laws in my hometown just shocks me.

I kept trying to find out what those kids were doing there, but all the employees stone walled me. I almost asked the on duty cop what the deal was, but he didn’t look friendly and I figured he was probably on their pay roll.

The other thought occurred to me, that maybe I was witnessing company babysitting.

I’m not sure what I just witnessed. And I’m scared that Wal-Mart may have me killed for what I saw tonight. If anything weird happens, friends. Blow up Wal-Mart.

Let’s Discuss my favorite links list today. I’d like to point out that the following people are not just figments of my imagination and are important folks who’s stuff you should read. I’ll also tell you how I met them and maybe share a colorful (or off-colorful) anecdote about them.

Keef

Keef, is a very special lad to me. He hosts this blog or whatever the hell name you want to call it. He brings me rum with half naked men on the bottle. He once filmed me running across the spillway of the Coralville dam, completely naked save for a good pair of shoes and a gigantic orange foam cowboy hat. There’s a lot of priceless memories that go with Keef and I could probably write 10-12 pages worth of those memories off the top of my head alone. But I want to share the first memory I have of Keef.

I was sitting in the apartment he and Mike shared in Iowa City on my first night in Iowa City, in August of 2000. Keef was out with Irving at the time. Suddenly, while we were watching Kids In The Hall episodes Mike had taped, Keef burst through the door with a gigantic sack full of frozen meats and tossed one to Mike and another to their room mate of two weeks Mike Herman. He was talking sort of like Charlton Heston and Santa Claus and very excited about the gigantic sack of frozen meats. Then he hugged me.

It was love at first site.

Mike

I’ve known Mike for almost two-thirds of my natural life. We went to Elementary school together, then Junior High, then High School, then College… briefly.

Anyway, he’s a pal from the old school days. Gunn School. Gin and Juice and Tupac on the Jungle Gym even. Ok, ok, I’m full of shit. It’s a small, fairly normal, white bread school for kids like me and Mike.

We were also Cub Scouts together. One of my earliest memories of Mike is him reciting a little limerick that involved him slanting his eyes and pointing at body parts. It went something like ‘Japanese, Chinese, Siamese, Christmas Trees, Look At These’ and ended with him pointing at his 8 year old nutsack.

Priceless.

Sara

Sara is the daughter of local celebrity Mike Gronstal. I’ve known her for roughly 6 or 7 years. We were on the Speech Team and Newspaper staffs together. I remember her and Patty Drey arguing politics all day long while I sat off to the side and drew my cartoon strips.

While I don’t have any hilarious anecdotes about Sara, you should still read her stuff. It’s amusing.

Stewart

What can I say about Stewart? Nothing nice, that’s for goddamn sure!

I’ve known Stewart for about 4 or 5 years, since right after he finished Jr. High. He was a very funny kid and still is. He likes to button and unbutton his shirt alot, and he’s recently fallen in love with Southern Comfort

One time Stewart was meeting my room mate and I for dinner and came over wearing a new, used green coat. He came into our living room, stood there for a moment as if to model it off, and walked over to our couch and sat down. He then sat there for a moment before taking the coat off and said ‘Guess what, I’m going to be a male model.’

We nearly pissed ourselves laughing.

Stewart said ‘WHAT?!’

Devin

Devin has been a pal since the very early days of Ninth Grade. I found out he liked Comic Books and the Smashing Pumpkins. I was very much a Smashing Pumpkins fan then, and getting out of Comic Books, though I still at that time read a lot of underground titles.

Anyway, we went on to do Speech together and made it to finals at Districts one year while doing Monty Python’s ‘The Bookshop Sketch’. After that we lost all ambition and retired.

One time I saved Devin’s life from an oncoming semi. He was starting to run across a street and not paying any attention. I slammed a hand down on his shoulder and saved his life.

He’s been in my debt ever since. Sunday night I mothered him while he was throwing up in our toilet. Silly, Devin.

Ian

I’ve known Ian for a couple years and they’ve been good ones. He’s a funny mother fucker and hails from Columbus, Nebraska. A town that beats Council Bluffs out on the top ten shitty places to live list (sorry, buddy.)

Ian’s the kind of drinking buddy everyone should have. He leaves me funny drunk voice mails and gets a good dance party started.

More people need Ian as their pal. ‘Nuff said.

Nicole

Next we have Nicole aka NikNak aka The Nak aka Your Wasted Girlfriend’s Spokesmodel. I met her through posting on SLAM Omaha where she decided that we are twins.

So there you have it. She’s my twin.

One time, she needed to write a paper about an important experience in her life, but couldn’t think of one. So I gave her one of mine to use and naturally she aced that fucker!

So there you have it. Twins.

Jillian

Where do I begin? Oh boy.

I met Jillian over my winter break just at the start of 2002. In that time period, she’s achieved status as my favorite person ever. That’s quite an accomplishment. I should give her a trophy of some sorf.

One time we went to the see the best concert I have ever witnessed together. Elvis Costello, in Kansas City.

She’s moving back to Omaha soon and thinks I’m going to get sick of her, but I don’t forsee that being a problem.

You should probably read everything she writes too. It’ll make you laugh, and cry, and smile, and think. And the people around the water cooler will stare at you funny.

Rachel

I know Rachel because of Nicole and too much time spent at the Junction over the summer. She’s an insanely funny girl, and can probably fit in the palm of your hand.

One time we bonded over beers that we stole from the Junction while Pete, the Two Thousand year old bar tender was walking down the street to another bar, at a pace of about 60 hours a Mile. Yes, I am aware how I just typed that. The beers were Pabst Blue Ribbon which the Junction sold for a ridiculous $3 a bottle. Amazingly, they also sold Heinekin and Guinness for the same price. I never drank another PBR in that bar after I realized that.

But that’s off subject. Rachel’s a funny person and you should check her diaryland page out.

Kat

Next up we have Ms. Kaitlin ‘Kat’ Bartik from Iowa City by way of Grayslake, Illinois. I met her last year in an enviromental science class at Iowa.

We shortly thereafter became pals and went to lots of shows together.

Though I have not seen her in many, many months, it’s always good to hear how she is, and what’s going on in her life and whatnot.

One time I made her come to an Abraham Lincoln party when she was thinking about staying in for the night, and she ended up having lots of fun like I told her she would. So there.

And last but not least we have

Bixby

Bixby is a pal from Iowa City who’s in a band with other pal’s in Iowa City. They’re called Faultlines.

They’re good lads all of them. If the others wrote anything, they’d be on here too.

I remember when Faultines came to play in Omaha, Drew and our buddy Dave were playing this game where they had to find the entire alphabet, in order, on road signs, license plates, and things of that nature.

Drew got really bent out of shape. It was hilarious.

And that’s that.

Those are my list of favorite links. You should probably work all of them into your life and center daily activities around them. Thank you.

You can really put up with getting pushed around for awhile. You really can. But eventually it’ll catch up with you. That’s when you get even.

Those were words he’d lived by for quite some time. Now, as he was walking through the Super Wal-Mart, wooden baseball bat in hand, and whacking every man, woman, and child he could find, his philosophy was coming true.

Here was for the time he was hit by a car at age 12 only to have the driver leave the scene before his license plates or a good description could be written down. Here was for all the times Uncle Herb molested him as a boy. Here was for all the shit he put up with at work. It was time for revenge. For every wrong done, one was righted with the swing of the bat and the compacting of flesh.

“FUCK THIS PLACE!” he kept screaming at the top of his lungs. “FUCK IT! FUCK IT! FUCK IT!”

The words were a mantra for him. They had the ring of a Buddhist “om” or a Krishna “haribol”.

As the police surrounded him in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart and crouched behind their squad cars pistols drawn and firing, he flung the bat through the air one last time and hit the Captain of the force directly in the jaw. The Captain hocked blood successively for ten minutes.

He died that day in a hail of gunfire, and that left a lot of people wondering what he was intending on accomplishing.

You might say it was nothing, but it meant a lot to me.

I am a genius.

For proof, download these videos.

Fish Stand 1

Fish Stand 2

I’m obsessed with Wal-Mart. Not because I am a consumer, but because I like to view it as an outsider. It’s a very different world. Some people work, shop, and almost live there. If they sold on property housing, I imagine children would grow up there never knowing anything outside of it’s walls.

Can you imagine that? Generations of children growing up knowing only Wal-Mart and not the light of day. Suns are replaced with neon floor runners and vitamin D is absorbed into nothingness with the hum of flourescent lighting. There ring of the register, the howl of the overhead, and the sounds of busy shoppers would be nothing but a lullaby of sorts.

It’s 3 AM somewhere. I am buying cantalopes and dreaming of the Gulf Coast.

I find that I day dream a lot. I’ll be sitting in my car, or standing in a line, or at work, or out walking and my mind will leave me for someplace else with other people.

My shopping cart is empty and I’m staring down an aisle. My list says ‘rice’ and my stomach says ’soon’. My mouth is remembering your lips and the way they tasted, and my hands are remembering the way your hands felt interlocked with mine. They were soft and smooth.

I quit smoking again.

This time I think it’s for good, though I will make no promises concerning that, for fear of eating these very words later on. I want the nails in my coffin to be rail road spikes. I want to die like John Henry. I’m a steel drivin’ man lawd, lawd.

I like going for walks at night in suburbia all alone. I like the way floodlights flash at you as you walk past each house setting off garage mounted motion sensors, illuminating the world like daylight.

At every house it’s the same. Taupe paint, the two car garage, a basketball hoop for junior, a flag on the front porch, and a flood light that spreads like a beacon every other driveway. I was there last night again. It never changes.

‘Our house is a very, very, very fine house. With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard.’

Will that be me someday?

Will that be you someday?

Will that be us?

Can we atleast get on the same page? I’m lost. I’m confused.

I read the newspapers and magazines when I’m sitting places and waiting. I got an oil change last week and read a few weeks worth of People magazine.

It entranced me for a short time. Ally McBeal and Indianna Jones are having an affair. Micheal Jackson is the worst he’s been in years. Liz Taylor got her cunt tightened again and married for the 387th time.

Celebrity gossip. Celebrity word searches. Lights, camera, action, glitz and glamour.

Goddamn Hollywood. Goddamn actors. Goddamn People magazine.

I’m tired of hearing about people’s lives who I will never meet. The only human interests I have are the ones I know and love and interact with. The only hearts I need warmed are my own and those closest to me. That will suffice. The rest can go to the wind and take flight. I’m out of sympathy and time.

I like being alone. I like wandering and having nothing to do. I like being free of responsibility.

I am surrounded by people. I have things to do. I have many responsibilities.

I bear and grin it and stick it the man every way I can. Clock in, clock out, go home. 40 hours a week, 8 hours a day, and I still haven’t filed for health insurance or benefits.

My prescription is getting weaker and my eyes hurt at night. I eat tums and wash them down with tap water.

I’ll sit on the couch and watch the war for awhile then change the channel in favor of the Mariner’s or the Yankees or something to occupy my mind before I go to sleep.

I’ll drink a beer and go to sleep.

I’ll call but no one will answer.

I want to die like John Henry. He was a steel drivin’ man. He died with his hammer in his hand.

I want to die like Johnny Thunders. He was not a steel drivin’ man.. He died with his guitar in his hand.

I want to die like Mother Theresa. I want to lie there surrounded by my peers and respected by the world.

I want to die like Ted Williams. Remembered for greatness- hated by most.

I don’t want to die though. Not yet. I want to live many years and see many things. And finally down I’ll go with a hammer in my hands.

John Henry was a steel drivin’ man, lawd, lawd. John Henry was a steel drivin’ man.

I talked with my dead grandmother last night. She’s doing well, if you care, and sends her regards. She’s doing well you see, playing Bunko in the great beyond and winning frequently. She hasn’t rolled three threes yet and is really raking in the tupperware and prizes.

She was talking to Buddy Epson the other day and he told her a very off color story. She said she wanted to kill him, but it would have been futile since he’s been dead for years.

Oh Buddy. I hope there’s a hell for bad television.

I hope Gilbert Gottfried spends eternity in it’s Seventh Circle, surrounded by the stars of Mama’s Family, Married With Children, Perfect Strangers, Step by Step, and the Facts of Life respectively.

Tonight I’ll return home, crawl into bed, and slumber off into a dream world.

I hope I see you there.

The light breaks in and it always catches you unaware. Your head is heavy and you’re at your most vunerable as your face is baking and your eyes are shocked at the white, hot, light.

One, two, three, four aspirin later and you crawl out of bed, looking for something to fill the pit in your stomach or atleast mend the hole you keep digging where your heart used to be.

It wasn’t always like this.

You weren’t always living on the edge of greatness and worthlessness. You long for steady, mundane surroundings because, at the very least, they’re consistent.

What is consistency?

What is comfort?

Not the bars. Not the bottle. And finally, most definently, not the girls.

You know the ones I mean- the ones who talk loudly and proudly but have nothing to say. The ones who expect the world, and your soul, and your wallet. The vultures looking for a starved man to scavage, someone to tear limb from limb for the sake of tearing someone limb from limb.

I have four dollars to my name and a joint to pass the night away. I’m no worse off than you are.

I’m no worse for wear.

I’m a working man too. I’m as taxed as taxes and as overdrawn as my bank account. Consider this your notice of insufficient funds, I don’t give a shit anymore.

I care more than you will ever know.

I care more than you will ever let me show.

Whether I learn to love you or hate you is irrelevant, because, in the end I still feel something for you. Hating isn’t so bad, feeling nothing is by far worse.

‘What was I looking for when I left?’ I sometimes ask myself.

A poetic man would say it was love, while a man of independent thought would say freedom. My mother calls me a failure and my father damns my name. It wasn’t about them. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about me.

It just was.

None of my friends make any goddamn sense this morning:

pretzlboy02: thank god you boosted me

TheRobotMonkey: ?

pretzlboy02: you helped me in an attack

TheRobotMonkey: that was pretty nice of me

pretzlboy02: yes’m

MattAtParicom: yay Robert Atkins is dead

TheRobotMonkey: ?

MattAtParicom: Atkin’s Diet

TheRobotMonkey: ?

MattAtParicom: .. High fat diet

TheRobotMonkey: ??

MattAtParicom: nm

MattAtParicom: how are you

TheRobotMonkey: throw me a float here, I’m drowning dude

MattAtParicom: get your organ?

TheRobotMonkey: not yet.

MattAtParicom: !!

TheRobotMonkey: I’m lazy

MattAtParicom: What Happen

TheRobotMonkey: I’m lazy

MattAtParicom: Main Screen Turn On !!

MattAtParicom: sigh.. how lame

TheRobotMonkey: what the hell are you babbling about?

TheRobotMonkey: you’re making as much sense as a Thai Hooker

I got up at five AM today so I could be at work at 7. I know what you’re thinking: ‘God Lord, Bill, why would you do something like that?’

Well, the answer is I had to. I had to go and get Mac certified at work so I can tech calls for the Mac OS.

And let me tell ya, I was soooooo excited about it too. After 7 hours of desperately wanting to die, it’s over, I’m certified, end of story.

You know it’s true what Jimmy Buffet said ’some people say that there’s a woman to blame, but I know it’s my own damn fault.’

I’ve found myself thinking that, matched with corona and margarita, a straw hat covering up sun burned memories as I run my toes through the sand.

Jimmy knew what he was talking about. That feeling when you can’t do anything right and don’t even want to try anymore. So you have a drink and forget. And then another drink, and another drink.

Then you lay out on the beach staring at the stars at high tide waiting for the waves to take you back to where you came from: the midwest.

And it’s all in your head, I guess. The same place where thoughts dance, ideas grow, feelings die, and that goddamn buzzing just won’t stop.

And you find yourself drunk, driving down the highway at night like a bastard out of hell, swinging the wheel of your car, throwing empty beer bottles along the high way, screaming at the top of your lungs ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GOD!’

It’s true what he said, old Jimmy. Truer than true. Truer than most. True and Blue. Black and Blue.

Why I am awake at 6 AM on a Saturday morning is anyone’s guess, but I am. The Faint/ Les Savy Fav show last night was wonderful. In fact, I still smell like I was there. I haven’t danced so hard in ages. My shirt is sitting in the corner on my tool box, and it’s still soaked.

Word to wise, the next time you get your pictures done at Wal-Mart DON’T get them back to you on a cd. I keep getting scripting errors because my pop up blocker is successfully blocking all the advertisment pop ups they’re trying to flash on my screen. And the software (that you have no choice of loading because they used some archaic image format that only the software can read) sucks balls.

I guess I should have known better. I mean, this is Wal-Mart we’re talking about.

Somebody buy me a flatbed scanner, please.

So Allison and I are going to the circus tonight. And I’m pretty pumped. I haven’t been to a circus since I was nine or ten years old, so I’m due for one.

I also have a trusty camera ready so I can get pictures of me with clowns. Mike suggested I throw up gang signs in the pictures. I agree with that idea.

I can hardly wait.

I’ve had five years experience in retail. It all started in high school when I worked for Kay-Bee Toys and eventually saddled an on-and-off-again job at Target my senior of high school that I kept up for two summers after going away and eventually quitting school.

Retail sucks the life out of you. I’m very glad to not do it anymore.

I was looking over my back log of entries and wanted to post something I’d written today. I wrote this on one of the worst days I have ever worked in a store , while I was trapped behind a desk taking numbers and answering phone calls.

But I was proud of it. And eventually, since I no longer update the old page, this will fade into obscurity. So I want it to get a little sunlight before that happens.

Here ya go.

At Work (the Blues)

People scutter everywhere, clothing in arms, voices raised, and no visible signs of concern on their faces as they tear through the store. ‘The first day of school is tommorow! We must consume!’ Brand new clothes, brand new backpacks, brand new pencil cases, and brand new school supplies. It’s the same old worries with the same old, tired, worn out answers: brand new things.

‘What Teacher do you have?’

‘How was summer vacation?’

‘How have you been?’

I’ve been out of school for just into three years and the paranoia, the hecticness, and the insanity still cling to my bones. My nerves are totally shot. My patience is gone. So, I sit and watch them root through the store I work in, and answer telephone calls, all the while trying to hand out fitting room numbers and jot all this down.

‘Thank you for calling the Council Bluffs Target, how may I help you?’ I ask so many times the words lose their meaning. It’s become machinelike. I am a machine. I am a working machine. Punch the clock, slap on a smile, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, have a nice day. I’m selling my soul.

‘Guest Assistance to the shoes!’

‘Price check on lane two!’

Why is no one smiling? Are you happy? You just bought a copy of ‘Friends’ greatest hits. I know I wouldn’t be laughing, but maybe it’s your thing. Smile Old Lady, that sweater looks nice. Smile Mister, you’ll be using those tennis raquets soon.

I’m at a loss for words, not a rarity I assure you, but the anger, the rage, and the general stress in the air from shoppers and co-workers is too much.

‘Is this all your plus size clothing?’

‘Do you know ANYTHING?’

Please be ruder to me. I know I don’t really deserve it, but can you just do me a favor and be as rude as you possibly can to me? It fuels my fire. It makes me enjoy my breaks so much more. It’s give me something to not worry about when I’m not clocked in. Be rude to me. Talk down to me. Treat me like I’m nothing. I’ll just push back more and more.

Enjoy your battery-powered-jewel-encrusted-life-by-rubber-maid. Clothe yourself in McDonald’s, Folger’s Coffe, and 24 pack after 24 pack of Mountain Dew, while driving from work to the day care center, the day care center to Wal-Mart, from Wal-Mart to the mall, from the mall to home, and from home to hell. Eat nothing but Nike, GAP, Wrangler, Levi’s, or whatever name you desire, because inthe end it all ends up as the scraps I patch my pants with.

The names are meaningless, the fuel will be burned; this train is bound for glory.

‘Back up to the front lanes!’

‘Phone call on line eighty six!’

‘I wanted to put a bullet between the eyes of every Panda that wouldn’t screw to save it’s species.’

‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!’

‘Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.’

‘Woman is the nigger of the world.’

‘Can we get a carry out on lane eleven?’

Too much talking. Too many requests. My head is spinning and my mouth is dry. All I really want is a glass of water to wash down the stress in my head. I am swimming in a lake of fire, my own personal hell that I ironically helped remodel, and I can’t get out. I awaken on deck of the boat and notice that the water in my head is full of salt. Crustaceans dance and an Octopuss sings me a lullaby while I scream in space; a place no one can hear you scream.

In the mail! The bastard wanted to receive the items he left in our store in the mail! The items were as follows: one bottle of shampoo, one box of panty shields, and KY-Jelly. His failure to remember his sack full of these items resulted in my ear getting chewed, long distance, on the telephone. Anger vanishes as I laugh about this now, after being told what he forgot and requested to be UPS’ed to his home. Irritation sets in. I wipe my glasses on my shirt and yawn.

Back to school. Back to school. How come no one ever has ‘Back To Home’ sales in the summer? Do you want to know why? It’s because you can’t really go home again. You can try all you want, but after you’ve left it and called somewhere else home, it’s just not the same feeling anymore. It begins to eat you alive. Old friends, family, and old aquaintices become nothing but vultures and scavengers trying to pick away at the person you once were. You love the old pack, but you need your distance. You need your own pack now. You’re no longer a cub. That’s why you can’t go home again.

‘Can I get a rain check?’

Rain checks are like going home again. After the sale is done, after you’ve moved out, after all the changes are made in price and in person, you feel a need to recapture things the way they once were. You can’t though. You shouldn’t. Fuck rebuilding. Start anew.

I hate this place, yet I love many of the people who work here, so I want to burn it to the ground, but I also want to rebuild it anew. I want everything and nothing for it. I want to douse the entire store in gasoline, flick a match, and watch the whole thing go up in hot white embers.

The time passes, the feelings refuse to subside and all I feel is irritation at feeling irritation. I want a cigarette. I want a break. I want love. I want to feel nothing but the way I feel when I’m holding you and you hang on tight for dear life, not wanting to lose the moment but hold it forever. I want that most of all.

I’m stuck here at work. I’m always stuck here at work and that doesn’t seem to be changing. Job interview this, resume that, apply, drop in, job fair, fuck off, I’m going round in circles and not calling any shots. H-O-R-S-E, you win and I lose so let’s play the game again. Or let’s play Around the World, Knock Out, or Freeze Tag or something else so I can just take my mind off of how utterly shitty this all is. A dodge ball smashes into my metaphor and I’m sent back to reality where a child has vomited on the carpet, I’ve just removed seven pairs of panties from the men’s dressing room, and my nerves are more than shot.

I wish you were here. I wish I was there. I wish we were somewhere. ‘Let’s go away for awhile, you and I, to a strange and different land.’ I want to lie on my back at night, the feeling of grass on my neck, and stare up at the stars while holding your hand. I want the sunsets. I want the sunrises. I want the long walks that don’t go anywhere except straight to our hearts and memories. I want all that and more.

I could keep this up all night. It’s all I have to cling to at work right now. I could rant and rave until my face turns blue, my head explodes, and my lungs fill with blood or fluid or piss. The writing is soothing. It’s all the medication in the world. It’s all the self-medication in the world. No beer, no joint, no snuff, no shot or whatever will come close or be this soothing.

I relax and the pen drops from my hand; this train is bound for glory