Goodbye

He whispered thirty-two simple words into her ear before returning to the inevitable:

“While I have everything every other man would ever want, it is because of you, and the time we spent together, that I will no longer question my existence on this earth.”

(Inspired by the final scene in Lost In Translation)

Sunday Sribblings

This week’s word is Change: The face staring back at him in the mirror is a tattered combination of exhaustion, abuse, self-loathing, loss, fear and hope. As another week comes to a slow and painful end, he is once again presented with a chance to start over. To put down the cigarettes, walk away from the bottle, leave behind the faceless sexual partners, and become the person he always dreams he will be in the moments of sobriety and solitude. Every Monday offers the chance to begin anew and start the maturation process internally promised, yet still unfulfilled. He knows, in this moment, that the fresh weeks before him are becoming less numerous than those of his past. The problem lies in the fact that the life he seeks—one filled with completeness, pride, and restful nights—is one that he has neither known, nor understood. His existence to this point has been defined by the recklessness of his days; without them, he does not exist, at least not in his current form. Nonetheless, this is the week—he tells himself aloud—that the change will stick and that the embarrassment associated with his life will end.

It is about time!!

After eight painful years, I feel like I can breath again. Great fucking day!

Rejection

If I could respond to this week’s rejection, it would go something like this:

Dear Mr. Too Busy to Follow Through:

Thank you for taking the time—albeit a week after we had agreed, and only after I called to inquire about my pending application—to send me an informal form letter notifying me that, regrettably, you would not be able to offer me a position with your organization.

As you indicated, you interviewed “hundreds” of people for this opening, so I can only imagine that changing the name in the heading of the rejection, printing it, folding it so that it fit in the envelope, signing it, and plying it with postage, was an incredible inconvenience for you and your staff. I can sympathize with the interruption, as I faced a similar situation in flying up to interview with you, on less than five days notice, and to the tune of $1,500, on two separate occasions. Not often in this profession does one get a chance to meet an individual, face to face, who demands promptness and sacrifice from others, but fails to follow through with even the simplest of requests—they usually hide behind the alleged ineptness of others. For this, I am in your debt.

Finally, I want to commend you for reminding me why it is I loathe my career choice.

Very truly yours,

AOTI

Sunday Scribblings

This week's theme is bragging.

I am a master of masking the truth of the situation. Pain is hidden
behind toothy smiles; failure, canned statements of positivity;
destruction, shoulder shrugs; embarrassment, self-ridicule; hatred,
baseless compliments; attraction, outward indifference; etc. The key
to my existence is to be the same thing to the same people everyday,
regardless of the cost and/or consequence. It saves me from having to
explain my daily ebbs and flows to those I would rather avoid. I am
the definition of even keeled.

Time marches on

There is a back story; it is a long drawn out explanation of missed opportunities and nothingness. But an excuse it is not; we are adults, we should have known it would culminate in this—conversations riddled with pain, tears spilled on pillows not shared, and voids of human contact. For all its failings, it was a conscious decision made in a time long since passed. My response is withdrawal, yours is confusion; regret is a constant. Despite our best efforts, life continues, and, outside of the stated goal, we get carried away with ourselves. . . .

Future greatness

I see very bright things in this little guys future (I am a proud, bragging father).

Disaster of miniscule proportions

One trip each to Kmart, grocery store, and Wallgreens.

Four cans Hormel Premium Chunk White Turkey, one can Chef Boyardee Overstuffed Beef Ravioli, one can Chef Boyardee Mini-Bites, two cans Hormel Chili with Beans, one Dinty Moore Big Bowl Beef Stew, one box Original Club Crackers, half block of brie, one jar Goober Grape peanut butter and jelly mix, and one loaf white bread.

Six two liter bottles of water, one two liter bottle of Gatorade, ten beers, three bottles of wine, and a pack and a half of cigarettes.

Eight D batteries, six AA batteries, twelve AAA batteries, two 9 volt batteries, three flashlights, two headlamps, one camping light, one pack of candles, six boxes of matches, three lighters, propane grill BBQ with spare propane, three fully charged IPODS, and a computer to track the impending doom.

Half-day of work on Wednesday, and a “snow” day on Thursday.

Shutters closed, windows locked, drains cleared, mop ready.

Last supper of pizza and sangria with friends.

Then wait, and wait, and wait. . . .

Wake up to the bluest sky known to man, dry floors, and four messages informing me that “snow” day is canceled and my presence is required in the office.

Roll into work an hour and a half late with some explaining to do.

My first “hurricane”; fuck the weather people.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Forbidden

Dear Diary,

Dad is the greatest! I know I didn’t always feel this way. That I have spent a good deal of time complaining about not being allowed to attend school, play sports, make friends, or even leave the four walls of this house, but I see now that I was angry about nothing. As it turns out, father has been hand-picking me friends, and storing them in the “forbidden” room in the basement. He does it at night when he thinks I am asleep. By my count, he has already chosen nine boys my age. He must be planning a big surprise, because he hasn’t said anything about them. He is really good at keeping secrets.

I can’t wait for the big day, I only hope that it happens soon, and that all the boys like me; I have never had friends before.

Okay, I have to act like I am asleep now, or he will not be able to go tonight….

I love you dad!

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Wedding

Darling,

Your constant and incessant nagging has finally paid dividends, I wrote my wedding vows last night!! I know how eager you have been to see them, so I attached them below for your review. Please let me know if you have any thoughts, questions, or concerns; otherwise, I will see you at the church tomorrow!! Big day!!

Your obedient man

****

I, painfully unprepared, take you, pushing me every inch of the way, to be my wife, my partner in this Godforsaken life and my last fuck. I will begrudgingly accept our union and try and sink a little more into my own self-despair each day. I will neither trust nor respect you; I will laugh at you, and cry because of you; cope with you through good times, and run during bad. With this, I give you my middle finger, what is left of my decaying heart, and not an ounce of love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.

Do I know you?

My initial thoughts were of my family sitting at home, happily ignorant; of my decision to swing by the bar for "one more round"; and of my unwavering defense of the Second Amendment. But as the moments passed, I fell into my overly-observant ways. Unlike the stereotype, he was neither menacing nor mean. He bordered on polite and felt strangely familiar. He wore a cheap suit, Costco shirt and a classy red tie clad with small Scotty dogs. His black shoes were worn, but serviceable. He emanated exhaustion. Truth be told, as far as I could see, the only difference between him and I at that moment was that his hand held the gun, and my tongue served as its resting place.

Sunday Scribblings

This weeks word was Invitation

It was 2:47 p.m. on a Saturday when it arrived. It was between a J. Crew catalog and a jury summons.

* * * *

The envelope was light blue, bordered by multi-colored, hand drawn surfboards; my name and address was written in orange puff paint.

* * * *

He joked once about doing something such as this, but I never thought he would follow through with it.

* * * *

Two things were contained within.

* * * *

He was thirty-three; at various points throughout his life he had been a professional student, bartender/waiter, comic, international playboy, pubic health worker, client service representative, and attorney; no stone was left unturned.

* * * *

First, a shrinky dink in the shape of He-Man, with the following inscription on the back:

To: Big B
Date/time: Saturday, October 18, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
Place: Astoria Park
Attire: Active wear (a MUST!)
Bring: Hamm’s/Pabst (cases); Pop Rocks (many);
Twister; red rubber balls (five); rope

* * * *

He always was a planner—something I did not hold in high regard—and would settle for nothing less than perfection.

* * * *

Second, an RSVP card (again light blue, but adorned with sailboats):

Please Circle:

Yes*

* There is no other option. There is no return envelope (for obvious
reasons). You will be there. Do not FUCK this up.

* * * *

The sounds emanating from my body at that moment—a muddled mess of laughter, sobs, snorts, and shouts of confusion—were, as I imagined, exactly what he intended. After regaining my composure, I placed his invitation in my pocket and found myself, for the first time in my life, looking forward to a funeral.

Good, I guess....

The question was simple: “what word defines you?” As he sat, reflecting on his life, all he could summon was the word Good (definition: “serving the desired purpose or end; suitable”). He was a Good student; a Good husband, brother, son; a Good friend; and, as far as he could tell, a Good employee. But what he was not—painful as it was to digest—was Great (definition: “remarkable or outstanding in magnitude, degree, or extent”). In that moment, he felt his life squandered, for people are inherently Good (i.e., suitable), but only a select few are Great. It is those individuals that make the world better, the rest . . . they just make it a more palatable place to exist.

Sunday Scribblings

Fuck the “best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup” shit. I want mine to be dark as the ocean floor, thick as oatmeal, and bitter as rust. No sugar, sans milk and a cup the size of a mixing bowl. I expect nothing less than a slap to the head and a kick in the balls. It is the offensiveness of the experience that jolts me to life, not the copious amounts of caffeine. You may question my approach, but this early morning reminder of the painful and truly grotesque allows me to make it through each and every day, for no matter how bad the remainder may get, it will never be worse than its detestable start.*


*Today's word is Coffee (http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/). I would like to thank Quin Browne (http://www.quinbrowne.com/) for introducing me to this exercise.

Into the black

He watched as she bent invitingly over the bar in an obvious attempt to attract the attention of the overworked bartender. The hatred he sought—over her youth, sexual prowess and ever increasing control over him—could not be summoned. He was instead gripped by the fact that she was everything he ever longed for, but nothing he needed. As the justifications ran internally wild, he could not escape the reality that, at twenty years his junior, she may have been old enough to touch, but was altogether too young to be decent for a man of his age…profession…and marital status. For a blinking moment, he knew what he had to do; but before his conscious could catch hold—as it always threatened in moments of solitude—she was back, eagerly displaying the drink he didn’t want, but desperately needed. With out it, there would be no her. Without her, there would be no purpose.

“Bottoms up,” he whispered, as he knocked back any chance he had to escape the destruction of his future.

My words, your potential problem

They are my words, thousands on thousands of them—but my name is nowhere to be found. For upwards of twelve hours a day, five days a week, I slave over lengthy pieces, only to send them off into the world as the words of another. I knew as much when I took the position—I just did not realize that the archaic structure, rules and constant time constraints would drain me of my desire to put words on paper. If I were more skilled, I would find a way to break out of the traditional, but I am a conformist, deathly afraid to rock the boat and make my superiors question their decision to put their reputation in my hands. For me, no matter how painful it is to watch something I have written walk out the door without so much as a mention of my existence, it is more painful still to know that any possible disaster will have a minimal impact on my career, but could quickly thrust those that trust me into an unflattering light.

Almost there

Seventy-seven minutes left in my twenties; somehow I expected something different, I guess I was wrong.

Welcome to the neighborhood

All I wanted was a cigarette on my terrace. It was late. I was tired. She lives across the street. I do not know why, but I was drawn to her open window. Nothing outside of the ordinary was occurring—she was fully clothed, sitting on her couch, seemingly watching television, stroking her dog—but I was transfixed. I fully intended to look away if she noticed me; she did; I didn’t. In a moment of panic, I ventured off my intended course, hastily concluding that by nervously averting my eyes, my innocent gaze would appear as something sinister, so I maintained eye contact; plan deviation has always been my downfall.

For the first time since the incident, I ventured back out; her shades were drawn. I fear that I am now the creepy guy across the way. . . . I moved into my apartment five days ago. This is going to be a long year for the both of us.

Food tales

I received the following email the other day. I found it quite humorous, so, with permission, I am reprinting it.

***

i think only you would appreciate these thoughts. i was eating blueberries and as i was placing yet another handful in my mouth, careful to only eat the ones with the crunchy taught consistency of fish eggs, i glimpsed one that had been squished open. a wave of revulsion cascaded over me as i saw the white grape-like flesh inside. i had imagined that, like their outer layer, the insides were a resplendent deep blue, almost black. i imagined a skull opened with the brains showing in my moment of disgust as i placed this lone broken soldier to rest with his soft and structural integrity-compromised brethren. the feeling passed and then i finished the box.

i also cut open an organic red bell pepper only to find a poor mutant half grown pepper child living within the guts of its healthy yet heirloom tomato shaped host. i imagined the movie "the hills have eyes". then i threw it away and proceeded to eat said host with my fingers.

Off the radar

Sorry for the extended absence, the past few weeks have been hectic. If all goes as planned, things should slow down soon enough.

In the mean time.....

what happened to all the fun we were supposed to have together
How the fuck am I supposed to know
but you promised
I know . . . and
I hate you
I know that too
you’re a bitch
always have been
do you even care
I quit doing that years ago, I thought you noticed
I need a drink
I beat you to it
why does that not surprise me
go fuck yourself