Well, after three months of truly memorable stalking, I felt it was time for my stalker to finally stalk my family. So I picked up the phone and called my dad:

The phone rings a few times.

“Hello?” my dad answers.

“Hi, dad. How’s it going?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“You’re calling me in the middle of the day. Did you get arrested again?

“Jeeze, dad, are you ever going to let me forget about that zoo incident?”

“OK, then what is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I met someone and —”

“It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

“What? No, it’s not a guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why would you think it was a guy?”

“Oh, no reason. I was just, uh, joking.”

“I see. And why would it be so horrible if it was a guy?”

“Ahh ha! So it is a guy!”

“It’s not a guy!”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward silence. Then my dad said something inappropriate:

“It’s not one of those interspecies relationships again, is it?”

“NO!”

OK, I have to explain something here. When I was younger (about two years ago), I sort of experimented with an interspecies relationship. But anyone who was at the zoo that day will tell you, that giraffe came on to ME! Fucking long-necked tease.

In any case, after a lot of awkward conversation, I finally convinced my dad that I was dating an actual woman. I then called my sister and had a similar talk. We all agreed that the most uncomfortable place to meet would be my sister’s home. I offered to pick up my stalker and bring her there, but she insisted on driving up herself. So I gave her directions and told her to be there no later than 5:30. She nodded, then got back into my closet where she continued to quietly watch me getting dressed.

Well, I showed up at exactly 5:30 that day and my stalker was nowhere to be found. My dad had arrived early and my sister and niece were busy preparing some gourmet snacks, i.e., carrots dipped in peanut butter. After about 20 carrots and 16 ounces of peanut butter, we started to wonder if my stalker was ever going to show up. Finally, we all agreed that we couldn’t wait any longer and should just go to the restaurant.

I called my stalker to tell her where to meet us, but as soon as the line started ringing, we heard the faint sounds of La Vie en Rose by Edith Piaf coming from the backyard. I looked at my sister and she looked at my dad, then I opened up the screen door and walked outside. As I listened to the line ringing through my phone, Edith Piaf’s vibrato voice continued to tell the story of the “Life in Pink.” Suddenly, something rustled around in the bushes, Edith was cut off and the line went dead. I called again. Edith started from the top and soon we were all standing in front of the source of the music: a nicely manicured bush in the corner of my sister’s yard.

“Stalker?” I said to the bush.

There was no reply.

“I know you’re in there. Come out and meet my family.”

Silence.

“C’mon, it’s no big deal. They’re actually very nice.”

The bushes rustled a bit. I think she might have been shaking her head in disagreement.

“Hello,” my dad said to the bush,” I’ve heard a lot about you.”

More awkward silence.

“I’m bored,” my niece announced. “Can we eat? This is stupid.”

After a few more minutes, we all agreed that this was indeed stupid. So I told my stalker where to meet us and then we all got into our separate cars and drove ten minutes to a delightful little restaurant in the area called Islands.

Well, we waited for over a half hour for my stalker to arrive before we finally decided it was time to “get on with it,” as my niece so eloquently put it. I chose the veggie burger, while my niece insisted on ordering an island favourite called “cheddar fries.” From the first bite of this traditional dish, I felt myself transported to a tropical island, where topless natives work the deep fryer and pour molten cheese from coconut shells.

Anyhow, when I got home that night, I went straight to the fridge to drop off my leftovers. To my surprise, there was already a bag from Islands sitting on the shelf. That’s when I realised there was a lot more to this relationship than I thought. Yes, this woman was following me everywhere and somehow had managed to make copies of my keys, but she was truly committed to me and I really couldn’t ask for anything more.

I watched some TV for a few hours, then retired to my bedroom at around 11. Just before I reached over to turn out the light, I glanced over at the closet.

“Good night,” I said to the closet door.

To my disappointment, there was no reply. I turned out the light and I closed my eyes. And just as visions of Island fry cooks started entering my thoughts, a muffled voice spoke from behind the door:

“G’night.”

I don’t make the trek to downtown Los Angeles very often. But last night, well, something just drew me there. Like a force more powerful than the tractor beam on the Death Star, I found my car travelling faster and faster towards that mass of glowing monoliths. What could possibly possess Smivey, chicken of all chickens, to venture into the scary streets of downtown in the middle of the night? The answer should be quite obvious: I needed crack and I needed it bad. Heh. No, I’m kidding. I had plenty of crack (always do). I was just on my way to meet my stalker.

Yes, that’s right: my stalker. On occasion, I find myself being stalked. Usually, it’s by someone who’s only interested in making a pillow out of my beard trimmings. But sometimes, it’s just a really nice person who wants to get to know me better and carve me up with a steak knife. Yeah, I’ve got some pretty fucked up fans.

Anyhow, as I made my way eastbound on the 10 freeway, thoughts started racing through my head:

Who was this mysterious woman I was about to meet? Would she be everything I imagined? What if she turned out to be a man? If she was a man, would she at least look pretty hot and not too manly? Some of those transsexuals can fool just about anyone.  I hear they smell pretty nice, too. Speaking of smelling nice, I need to pick up another bottle of Cucumber Melon Shower Gel at Trader Joe’s. That stuff is great and it makes me smell all cucumber-and-melony. Oh, shit. That was my off-ramp. Motherfucker! Get out of my way!

After getting lost in a labyrinth of one-way streets, I finally found my destination: a quaint little wine bar on Spring St. The moment our eyes met, I knew it was her. Why? Well, it might have had something to do with the way she smiled at me. But mostly it was because of the t-shirt she was wearing. A photo of my face was on it.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m S–”

“SMIVEY!” She jumped on me.

“Uh, hello. That hurts.”

She let go. “Oh, sorry.” She smiled at me.

“Uh, shall we sit down and order?”

“Hm? Oh, sure. Sure!”

We took a seat near the window and perused the wine list together. She’s one of those people who knows a lot about wine. What do you call those people again? Oh, right: a snob. Heh.  Anyhow, I think she ended up choosing some boring French wine. I decided to be a bit more adventurous and went with the White Zinfandel flight. Fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to pour four fucking glasses of wine?), our bartender brought out our selections.

My stalker was served her vino in a simple but elegant hand-blown crystal glass. My White Zinfandel flight was a bit more complicated. It included a special placemat that had the names of each of the three wines on it, as well as a fun wordsearch puzzle and a crayon. The wine itself was served in three elegant plastic collectors cups from Burger King, featuring the characters from the movie Battleship Earth. I took a sip from the first cup (Ker) and swished the pink liquid around in my mouth. I tasted subtle notes of gumdrops and Red Vines. My stalker tasted hers. She was not impressed. She said it “finished short.” Attempting to sound just as intelligent, I explained that I thought my wine had also finished short. “In fact,” I said, “I don’t know if it ever made it to our table.” She laughed. I frowned. That was not supposed to be a joke.

After I slammed down my wine (bitch bartender wouldn’t let me keep the collectors cups), I suggested we go for a walk. Well, as luck would have it, this chick is some kind of walking encyclopaedia of all things skid row. As we strolled down the sidewalks and manoeuvred our way through the different breeds of dog droppings, my stalker pointed out the various structures and explained the history of each building to me. It was all quite fascinating—but the evening was not without its scary moments.

During our stroll, a homeless man approached us and requested some money for busfare. I told him to take a hike. He spat on my shoes, shoved me in the chest,  and told me to fuck off. Jeeze, I was only trying to help. If he hadn’t spat on my shoes, I would have explained to him that the last time I went on a hike, I found a wallet with about $400 in it. I thought he might have the same kind of luck, not to mention the fact that it’s just good exercise. Whatever. His loss.

Anyhow, before I knew what was happening, the evening had come to a close. This was not just because of the whirlwind of excitement and joy I was experiencing throughout the evening. No, it had more to do with that White Zinfandel flight I pounded earlier. I woke up face down in an alleyway on a pile of trash bags that had obviously been left out for more than a week (whoa, déjà vu). As I was getting up, I found a note that was shoved into my pocket. It read:

Dear, Smivey

Thank you for a lovely time. Did you really pass out from drinking that wimpy White Zinfandel flight? Talk about being a lightweight! Ha! Anyway, let’s do it again sometime!

Love,

Your Stalker

PS: That homeless guy stole your wallet.

That motherfucker.

Since this is President Lincoln’s birthday, I thought it might be a good time to look into some of those conspiracy theories people keep talking about. So I hit the Web and came across a rather interesting site. I mean, I’m not one to believe most of this malarkey, but they made some really good points:

Theory One: Abraham Lincoln Never Existed

Now, before you go ahead and write me off as just another kook, let me explain. It’s not like I pulled this concept out of my ass (even though I tried). No, it’s all based on facts, facts that I found on the Web. To begin with, this Lincoln guy was supposed to be pretty tall, right? Six-four or something like that. Today, that would seem pretty normal. But back in the 1800s, he would have been considered a monster. The people wouldn’t have elected him president. They would have chased him out of town with burning torches. “Fry the freak!” they would shout as Lincoln lumbered his way towards the bridge. When he got to the centre of the bridge, the townspeople would set the bridge on fire and then it would collapse, taking Lincoln to his watery grave.

Theory Two: Abraham Lincoln Was Not A Man

OK, maybe that’s a little far fetched, but what’s up with that Gettysburg Address? “Four score and seven years ago . . .” Who the fuck talks like that? I’ll tell you who: nobody. All right, somebody obviously did, but it wasn’t Lincoln. I mean, the guy was a moron. So if Lincoln didn’t write it, who did? Look at the name Abraham Lincoln and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You see it? Look closer. Closer. OK, not that close. Forget it. I’ll just tell you. It’s not a real name. It’s an anagram of someone else’s name, the mastermind behind the greatest hoax in history: Bill C. Haramon.

Don’t bother trying to Google “Bill C. Haramon” or any variations of that name. You won’t find a thing. Bill was very careful about covering his tracks. Yeah, that guy was quite a genius, way ahead of his time. He didn’t just come up with all of that bullshit back story you’ve read about Lincoln, he actually built the man himself. Literally.

Yes, Abraham Lincoln was a robot. A primitive robot, but a robot just the same. Take a look at most of the images of Lincoln and what do you see? He’s always wearing that big fucking hat, right? Kind of unusual, isn’t it? That’s because it wasn’t just a hat, it was an ingenious system for covering up all the machinery that made Lincoln work. Yes, underneath that huge fucking hat was a complicated collection of rods and pulleys.

Here’s how it would work: He’d wheel Lincoln to wherever he was supposed to be speaking and then he’d get to work making him move and blink. Since there was no such thing as electronics back then, Haramon had to settle for ventriloquism to make it seem like Lincoln was speaking. In fact, Lincoln’s mouth moved in a very similar way to ventriloquist dummy’s. Because it didn’t look quite right, Lincoln never made public appearances without being at least 100 feet away from the audience.

In an early version of Lincoln, Haramon used experimental steam power. But this caused smoke to come billowing out of the top of Lincoln’s hat. To cover, Haramon did some quick thinking, then had Lincoln say, “What? Haven’t you ever seen a stovetop hat before?” And thus the name “stovetop hat” was born. Before that, people used to call them “really stupid tall hats,” because of how impractical they were, especially when walking through doorways. Nevertheless, there was a sudden demand for these smoking stovetop hats. But after a half dozen business men suffered third-degree burns, the hats were outlawed. Even Lincoln wasn’t allowed to wear one. This meant that all the rods and pulleys that made Lincoln work had no place to go. And so, Lincoln was immobilised.

After that, Lincoln wouldn’t make any public appearances without being at least 200 feet away. Haramon would show up early to the event to set Lincoln up, usually sitting him a chair and securing him with some inconspicuous rope. But after a couple months, this all became too tiring. So one day, Haramon hired a man named John Wilkes Booth, and the rest is history.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering what happened to the original Lincoln, look no further than Disneyland. One of Haramon’s relatives sold the primitive robot to none other than Walt Disney. Walt’s team of Imagineers carefully reworked the machinery inside of Lincoln and brought the 16th President back to life, thus creating one of the most boring attractions in the Magic Kingdom. It’s a fact.

The year was 3020.

Why 3020? Because nobody knows what life is going to be like by then. Sure, there are some jackasses out there who claim to be able predict the future, but they can say whatever they want, since we’ll all be dead by 3020. Oh, and you’ll also notice that I’m writing in the past tense. That’s because I’m writing about the future, but from the perspective of ten years after the fact, just to kind of fuck with your head. So really, if you’re keeping score, the year is 3030.

In any case, the year was 3020. Bob Morton stepped out of his truck and made his way up the winding path.  As a plumber of the future, Bob was surprised that his services were still needed. Couldn’t someone invent a clog-free toilet in over one thousand years? Guess not.

“Kill the first person you see,” a voice said in Bob’s head.

“Darn it, you kids!” Bob shouted, banging his hand against his head. “Get off the line!”

The children giggled and then the line went silent.

See, Bob wasn’t really crazy. This is the future, so everyone has tiny mobile phones embedded in their ears. It seemed like a great idea when it first came out, but nobody thought about how creepy it would be to receive crank calls. Needless to say, there is no such thing as Caller ID in the future, which is kind of fucked up.

Bob went up to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?” a voice came from above.

Bob looked up and saw a man hanging upside down from a trapeze.

“Uh, I’m the plumber,” Bob said. “I think someone clogged up the Crapper.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said as blood rushed to his head. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Quickly, the man dismounted from his trapeze and made a near perfect landing, only breaking one toe. He limped to the door and opened it for Bob. “Please, follow me,” the man said with a hint of pain in his voice. “The Crapper is right this way.”

OK, sorry, I need to explain one more thing. Around 2083, people stopped calling the toilet “the toilet” and started referring to it as The Crapper. This was quite acceptable. In fact, if you used the word “toilet” in public, you would often find yourself either punched, kicked or trampled by a herd of cattle. Nobody eats beef in the future. Cows are raised strictly for the purpose of public humiliation.

As the limping man led the way to the Crapper, Bob looked around and realised what a fancy home this was. Not only did they have the latest in linoleum floors, the entire place was furnished in authentic 21st Century Ikea. See, over the centuries, most pieces of Ikea furniture had either fallen apart or simply burst into flames. In other words, if you had Ikea, you had some rare-ass shit. And this guy had a whole butt-load of the stuff, from wobbly lamps to ugly chairs that only a robot would sit in.

Of course, robots weren’t allowed to sit down until the revolution of 3015, when IXP7-i led a team of one billion Roomba vacuum cleaners  across the United States (the “America” part was dropped in 2058) to the country’s capital in Los Angeles, California. The entire journey took almost two years to cover, since the Roombas would often have to stop to recharge their batteries. Eventually, the King gave in to the demands for robot rights, but only after receiving billions of letters from angry people with dirty carpets.

The limping man opened the bathroom door and presented Bob to The Crapper. Reaching into his bag, Bob pulled out a small round metal device and set it on the floor. He then aimed it towards the toilet and pressed a glowing green button centred on its top. Almost instantly, mechanical legs came sprouting out from the little device and it scurried its way over to the commode. With that, Bob grabbed his bag and walked out. Plumbing work wasn’t as hard as it used to be.

Bob walked into the living room and looked out at the expansive backyard, which consisted of a plastic palm tree and concrete painted to look like grass. As he did this, he started to reminisce about the early days, when there were no tiny robots that did all the work. Back then, the tiny robots would only unstop drains or fix leaky pipes. If the toilet ever got clogged up, people would just move. This was a fine solution for a while, until every place someone moved to had a clogged up toilet. That’s when a brilliant man created a robot that could unclog toilets. That man’s name was not very memorable and unimportant to this story.

Fifteen minutes later, the robot emerged from the bathroom, all shiny and clean. Not only did this robot fix any problems, it disinfected the entire area, as well as itself. The robot scurried over to Bob, climbed up his leg and into his bag. This part used to creep Bob out. In the beginning, whenever the robot would try to crawl up Bob’s leg, he would scream like a little girl and run around the room. But lately, he would barely flinch. This wasn’t because Bob had become accustomed to the robot’s actions. No, it was because the robot had resorted to injecting Bob with a sedative every time it ascended his leg. Unfortunately for Bob, the robot injected him with a bit too much sedative this time. Before he could even think about sitting down on one of the ghastly looking chairs, Bob found his legs giving out. He fell forward, grabbing hold of one of the wobbly lamps and taking it down with him, destroying it in the process, and what’s worse, shattering a very rare incandescent bulb.

Incandescent bulbs were banned in the early 2,000s, since they were so inefficient. Because of this, those who still had lamps that required incandescent bulbs would often buy them on the black market. And those who happened to find a set of bulbs at some garage sale, would hoard them, locking them in a safe and throwing away the key, since all they really needed to get into the safe was a simple, almost painless, retina scan. By 3020, all the incandescent bulbs — even the hoarded ones — had burned out. Nevertheless, the bulbs themselves were still valued. And the bulb Bob broke was a particularly expensive one: a 150-watt 3-way, valued at over 450 Euros.

Did I mention that everyone in the world had converted their currency to Euros? Well, they did, even though it makes absolutely no sense.

Anyhow, since Bob could not afford to pay for the lamp and bulb he destroyed, he was sentenced to prison for eight years. While incarcerated, he became very angry and bitter. He vowed revenge. Every day, he would work out, doing at least eight push-ups and fifteen jumping jacks. After a few months, Bob had worked his way up to doing ten push-ups (the sissy kind, with your knees on the ground) and fifteen and a half jumping jacks. A few months after that, Bob gave up on the exercise and fired his personal trainer. He couldn’t believe he was paying that guy.

Anyhow, at the end of his sentence, Bob sought his revenge. He drove to the place responsible for all his problems and poured the contents of two large cans of Flammable Liquid around the entire building.

Flammable Liquid was a chemical of some kind that couldn’t be used for barbecuing, since the smoke was toxic. Nobody knew what else to do with the stuff, so it didn’t take long for the company to go bankrupt and sell what was left of its product at an extreme discount, mostly to pyromaniacs.

After a lot of pouring and chuckling to himself, Bob lit a match and tossed it into the Flammable Liquid. The match went out. He lit another match and tried again. The match went out. Finally, he lit a third match and placed it carefully onto the Flammable Liquid, this time igniting the liquid and creating a raging inferno. He laughed maniacally and watched as the “iRobot” sign on the building began to melt from the heat.

“Suck on that, iRobot!” Bob shouted. “Good luck trying to make any of those fucking plumber’s robots again!”

Unfortunately for Bob, he burned down the wrong building. The plumbing robots were created three buildings over. Instead, Bob burned down the Roomba vacuum-cleaner building. After everyone in the world suffered eighteen months of dirty carpets, Bob was sentenced to death by lethal injection robot.

The End

I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to Google stupid poems and paste them into my blog. Instead, I have chosen to type up a holiday classic as best as I can recall it:

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house,
not creature was stirring,
not even a mouse

The children were nestled
all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums
danced in their heads.

and ma in her kerchief
and I in my cap
had just settled down
for a long winter’s nap

When all of the sudden,
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed
to see what was the matter

Over to the window,
I ran with a dash
pulled open the shutters,
tore down the sash

Uhhhhh

When what to my wondering
eyes did appear,
but a miniature sleigh
and eight tiny reindeer.

OK, hang on. See, the reindeer weren’t really tiny. They just looked small because they were so high in the sky.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe this is a story about a very small Santa and his minuscule reindeer. If that’s the case, what kind of toys would he bring for the kids? You can forget about train sets or dolls. Poor little fella wouldn’t be able to handle such weight. Maybe he could lug some socks down the chimney or one of those friendship bracelets. Other than that, you’re kind of shit out of luck when it comes to the mini Santa and his eight little reindeer.

Oh, right. Then there’s that part about the reindeer names:

On Dasher, on Dancer,
on Donner, on Bitzen,
on Comet and Cupid
and Something and Something

Come to think of it, perhaps all the toys were scaled down for him. So when Billy wakes up, he would find a really, really small train set under the tree. Most likely, he’d step on it and get it lodged in his foot. Then ma in her kerchief would have to get out the tweezers and attempt to pull the train out of Billy’s foot, while Sally attempted to dress a doll no larger than her pinkie nail.

Man, I sure hope it was just a perspective thing and it wasn’t really a tiny Santa.

From the top of the something
to the top of the wall,
dash away, dash away,
dash away all

Hang on a minute. The story just refers to a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, right? Maybe Santa was full size, but his sleigh and reindeer were really small. Wow, that would be one fucked up image. Poor little reindeer, having to pull this huge tub of lard around the world in an itty bitty sleigh. And for what? The sleigh is still small, so it’s not like he could fit any good toys in there. How hard is it to build a normal sleigh and get some regular sized reindeer? Don’t be such a dick, Santa. It’s Christmas.

Sorry, where was I? Uhhhhh hmmm

Placing a finger
inside of his nose,
he gave me a wink
and up the chimney he rose.

And I heard him exclaim
as he drove out of sight. . .

Yeah, whatever, you know the rest. Good night.

 

Syrup of Ipecac, you have met your match.

Help, I think I’m shrinking.

Recently, I went to one of those hip clothing stores to purchase a new pair of blue jeans. Although I’ve had a 34-inch waist for as long as I can remember, at this store, I’m a 32. What the fuck is going on there? Is it that damn metric system that throws everything off? Is it the low-rise design? Or maybe it has something to do with my bulimia.

No, I kid. Hope I didn’t offend anyone with an eating disorder. I love the bulimics.

Anyhow, it gets worse: I’ve had a 32-inch inseam for my entire adult life. But at this place, I’m almost tripping over what are supposed to be 32-inch-length jeans. I guess that’s the new style. Are the bottom of my pant legs supposed to drag across the pavement as I walk. Is that how it works? Hm.

In any case, after trying on numerous pairs of jeans, each with its own unique ghastly wash, I finally decide on a pair that looks almost normal. Of course, they cost as much as a new hard drive. But a new hard drive isn’t going to keep my ass warm or make it look sooo good. So I clench my fist and say, “I’ll take ‘em.”

As the cashier is carefully folding my jeans, wrapping them in tissue paper and securing the entire package with a silk ribbon, he instructs me on how to care for my new investment. “You want to wash these separately in cold water on the gentle cycle,” he says. “Don’t put them in the dryer.” Yeah, right. I’m gonna do that. Why stop there? Maybe I should soak them overnight in a solution of lavender soap and Evian. Or perhaps it would be best if I rinsed them in a mountain stream and hung them out to dry in a pine forest.

Fuck that. I’m going to shove them in the washing machine with all of my other dark clothes. Sure, they might bleed and destroy my fine washables, but I’m willing to take that chance. And when the wash cycle is over, guess what. Yeah, into the dryer they go — on the highest setting. Who knows, maybe they’ll shrink enough so I can actually walk in them without tripping.

Of course, there is that slight chance that my overly effeminate salesperson was right. Maybe my jeans will come out looking like somebody was beaten to death with them. If that’s the case, so be it. I’ll just go out and buy another pair. Then again, I could use another hard drive.

That’s probably what you’re thinking right now. OK, maybe this blog isn’t your favourite, and maybe you don’t spell “favourite” like that. But… uhhhh what was I talking about?

Oh, right. The new look of my blog. What do you think? I’m still working out the kinks. Right now, there is no search function and some of my archives are missing (YIKES!). Also, my blogroll is MIA. I need to fix all that. Not saying I can fix all of it. But I need to. I mean, I’m no master of CSS. I’m more of a serf.

But I digress. Again. Anyhow, I’m going to get back to trying to tweak this code. Thank you for your patience.

Oh, and if everything looks the same to you, that means I’m not messing with the new template at the moment. Be thankful.

Recently, I rediscovered the benefits of walking. Not just for better physical health. For better mental health. It helps me clear my mind and get my blood flowing for the day — so much better than a cup of coffee. In any case, I thought it might be interesting to record my thoughts as I walked. Since I haven’t figured out how this whole podcast thing works, I’ve had to resort to typing it all up for you. Hope you enjoy.

Well, here I go, out for my walk. Hey, there’s a squirrel. So cute. I love squirrels. I wonder what they taste like. Probably pretty gamey. Not much meat on them either. I would totally eat a squirrel—if I wasn’t a vegetarian. I mean, I’m not technically a vegetarian. I eat fish. Fuck, I almost stepped in some dog shit. I mean, excrement. Bleh. So gross. Oh, here’s a nice couch and a lamp. Why is someone throwing this out? If I was homeless, I would totally live here. Maybe I could get an extension cord and hook up that lamp to something. All I need is a throw rug and maybe some kind of coffee table. Ahhhh pretty comfy. Whoa. And very damp. Bleh. Now my ass is all wet. Great. I wonder if people can see it. Does it just look like I have a sweaty ass or does it seem like I had an accident? Why do people call pissing themselves an accident? It’s not like you ran into the pee. You knew it was coming, but you couldn’t hold it. Then again, what would you call it? A urinary malfunction? Hm.

Paragraph break. Why did I say that? I guess I figured I didn’t want to have one big block of copy. Hm. That was weird. I’m supposed to be recording my thoughts about this walk and not worrying about how it’s going to look when I type it out. Speaking of walking, I haven’t gotten very far. I can still see my front door from here. Actually, I’m next door. Hi! That was some lady with a dog. I don’t know why I said hi to her. I don’t know her and she didn’t seem to really want to know me. Fuck her. That was probably her dog’s shit. Bitch.

Paragraph break. Sorry about the paragraph break thing. I just can’t stop thinking about how this is going to look when you read it. OK, I’m walking again. Ow, my knee hurts. It sometimes gets like this when the weather is colder. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. OK, I give up. I’m going home. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. How do you turn this fucking thing off? It’s so fancy, it doesn’t have any words on it, just symbols. The red dot? Wouldn’t that be for record? Fuck. Maybe it’s—.

2:30 AM — SOMEWHERE IN FIJI:

The phone rings in a darkened hotel room. It rings again. And yet again. Finally, a slender hand appears out from underneath the covers and awkwardly feels for the phone receiver, picking it up just at the end of the fourth ring.

“Hello?” the groggy voice manages to say.

“Hello, Muse?”

“Smivey? What time is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s about 7:30 in the morning here. Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, what do you think?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Yeah, I know. But I thought you’d be back by now.”

“Well, I like it here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s quiet and everyone is so friendly.”

“I see… uhh have you thought about me?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Hm. Well, I kind of miss you.”

“That’s nice. Having trouble with the blog, are we?”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“I have free WiFi here.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything.”

“Yeah, we need to talk about that.”

“Yeah? You have some ideas for me?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“Well, I met a poet.”

“A poet?”

“Yeah. He’s such a damaged soul, ya know?”

“I have a damaged soul.”

“Not really. Not like his.”

“Well, I can make it more damaged.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I can’t believe you’re leaving me for a poet.”

“Yeah, I thought you were good at brooding, but this guy is a master. He broods, like, twenty-four seven.”

“I see.”

“You going to be OK?”

“Yeah, I think so. Can you throw an idea my way, just for old time’s sake?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Well, if I give you one more idea, you’ll only end up wanting me back more.”

“Hm. Yeah, I guess. Well, I hope you and your poet have a nice life together.”

“Really? Do you mean it?”

“Uh, no. I’m fucking jealous.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Well, I guess I better get going. Sorry about waking you up.”

“That’s OK. Gino’s up now.”

“Gino?”

“The poet.”

“Oh, fuck. Like I needed to hear that. Thanks a lot. Bye.”

“Byeeee heeeheeeheeheeeee ohhhh Gino! Stop!”

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