"Holy shit, no good..."

Jeff cautiously sits down on the couch, leaving a gap between me and the 35 year old. He looks over and smiles at me, a smile that turns the air thick of his intention and anticipation. Politely smiling back, I grab my blanket and toss it over myself, repositioning on my flower-fabric cushion. I feel slightly on display, like a whore in a window found in the seedier parts of Amsterdam. He makes passing glances at me and my stomach turns.

We're watching a movie, one with Michael Caine and a cute little kid whose name I don't know. It chugs along at a slower pace than I'd like for a situation like this. Jeff and I are the only two still awake and his obvious interest in me only seems to be growing as the movie continues. He gets up off the couch once or twice and when he returns, he sits down an inch or two closer to me, stretching his left arm along the length of the three-seater and resting his hand dangerously close to my shoulder.

Michael Caine and the cute little kid whose name I don't know end up pushing their vehicle into the ocean by accident, and as I chuckle and Jeff laughs, he makes his move in this game of chess that I don't want to play. Fingers slightly curled and moving in circular motions, he finds my shirt and starts rubbing my shoulder like a visitor at a pet store.

I say, "Yeah, to be honest, I'm not really sure if I'm super interested." Michael Caine is performing a magic trick onscreen.

"Oh, that's alright, we don't have to do anything." He pauses for a moment and says, "I just came over because I like your company." His left hand starts mini-massaging my shoulder, occasionally brushing the flesh of my arm beneath my shirt. It moves to my neck and then up to my hair, running his fingers through a bit of it.

It feels good, I'll admit. Touch is exciting and I'm excited at being touched. But my excitement quickly subsides as he scoots even closer and then slowly rests his head on my shoulder. Two or three inches from my face, his shaved head smells like a hospital mixed with Old Spice, and my stomach doesn't feel any better.

The cute little kid is having a birthday party and Jeff is reaching his beefy hand out and ends up resting it on mine. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I say to myself. Why are the only people interested in me people that I have zero interest in? He's doing that thing with his thumb, where he moves it left to right, left to right, seemingly trying to rub the very skin off the back of my hand. I'm frozen in fear at this point, no longer enjoying the bit of playfulness. A grown man is laying on me and attempting to sand the flesh off my bones with his calloused fingers.

Still, I say nothing and keep watching the movie. Michael Caine just passed away in his sleep.

I mentally kick myself for not having the backbone to be honest with him, but the nice-guy syndrome compels me to endure rather than simply tell him off. I'm not interested in Jeff, but I'm also not interested in hurting his feelings, either. Instead, I check the runtime of the movie and find consolation in the film being almost over. His big hand with sausages for fingers continues to rest atop of my own, which hasn't moved since he "caught" it. I wonder at this point if he has any idea how uncomfortable I am, but the way he caresses my hand tells me otherwise.

Seriously, I think to myself, what's wrong with me? Just tell the guy already. Tell him you're not interested and politely remove his hand from yours. Nudge his stinky old head off your shoulder and get your ass of that couch. He'd know for sure then, right?

The cute little kid whose name I don't know is talking to his mother. A minute later, the credits start to roll and I finally find a valid reason to end this whole hand/shoulder molestation. I slowly get up and retreat to the bathroom. I pee and wash my hands, look up into the mirror, and mouth to myself, "Holy shit, no good."

When I come back out into Jeff's makeshift love chamber, I express my tiredness and he starts putting on his shoes again. He slips on his hat and stands, walking towards me with his arms outstretched. Damn, this guy really doesn't get it. He wraps his big arms around me and bear hugs me, even lifting me off the ground an inch or so. My return embrace is weak but Jeff seems unphased, so he smiles at me again (making my stomach turn once more) and heads for the door.

"Drive safe," I say.

He turns around and says, "See you soon, sweetie."

I Watched Ken Park

I was just standing outside on the porch that's connected to my room. I was lighting my cigarette when I heard movement on a balcony a few houses over, so I lower my lighter and listen. Turns out, this guy came from the school of hard knocks. I was able to pick out keywords from his expletive-fueled rants: girlfriend, cheat, I wouldn't do that, I love you, please baby, etc. Of course, I couldn't see this guy at the time so I'm quietly eavesdropping, feeling slightly guilty for peering into this window I've been given.

There are a lot of heavy conversations I've had when I thought no one was listening. Once, when I was living with Michael and Heidi I took a call from my mom. We were two hours away from each other and pissed off, so we verbally abused one another over the phone - the whole time, Mike and Heidi were in a room above me and could hear me down below, stalking around like a bat out of hell. I'm not normally an angry or aggressive person, but if I'm emotionally invested in what's going on, I don't care who's within earshot.

The guy, the one from outside: he went back into his apartment. I heard his sliding screen door shut just a second ago. He's probably livid at the fact that he royally screwed up by gettin' it on with another girl...

And of course, he probably doesn't think it's his fault.

Mushrooms

Justin:

I just want to tell... dont' be sorry... don't be sorry. This is posible. Things that are happening now...Muhrooms make everything in the world the best they could possibly be. Nothing is tangible and the universe is here

Keith:

as long as...

as long as i can tipe

it's impossible to know what i'm trying to look at, itlss too far aay.

what are we listening to

slowly the day break is her=

and softer, you rain.d..

wha is this should i continue? what is thias that i'm doing it almost seems poetic whatr i'm doing here. it all fitys what i'm thinking sort of a dread. ohhhhi look down

and i can't

this is whatever it is ups and downs. all of it. surrender to it. i don't wanna.

The Golden Years

My grandparents just had their 50th anniversary last weekend. Fifty years and still married to each other, isn't that wild? At the end of the night, after most of their friends and family left, I found myself facing the dance floor watching Nana and Papa slowly drift to a country love ballad. It was romantic, to say the least. I saw my Nana singing softly along with the lyrics and my Papa whispering into her ear, making her laugh and causing them to stumble a bit. Photos of their life were fading in and out on the projection screen behind their dancing, providing little details that shed light on their long lives and rich back story.

I wonder how my memoir will read (when I'm finished with it). I wonder if my golden years will resemble theirs, and whether I'll find myself slow-dancing to long love songs from my teenhood. What will that look like? Who will it be with? Am I even comfortable with that idea, of investing myself so deeply into someone? We would shuffle our velcro shoes across the dance hall, smiling and perhaps tearing up, hugging each other and feeling complete. It sounds almost dreamy, and safe. Secure. Comfortable. Vulnerable, but protected by our insistant and understanding love for one another.

I'm clearly rambling now. Truth is, I'm a two-bit, good-fer-nothin' romantic and I wouldn't have it any other way. These ideas of love and relationships can become so convoluted and complicated that it makes it not seem worth it at times. But as hard as I try, I can't help but WANT to love and be loved. I feel like I'm designed, wired, created for love.

Okay, WHOA, slow down tiger. I'm easily excitable.

Claritin Time

I'm rocking myself in Justin's blue recliner, staring at the Pink Floyd poster above our kitchen windows. We've got party lights hooked up: an orange fluorescent, a green light bulb, and a blacklight. This place is baller, seriously. It's a typical bachelor pad, I guess - empty Jameson bottles line the tops of our cupboards, marijuana and it's accompanying toys lie around everywhere, and you can find one of seven 3-packs of condoms if you look hard enough.

I live with three incredibly daft people: Jared, Daniel, and Justin. They're not really daft (the jury's still out on Jared), but actually very intelligent people. Jared's the handy man who knows all sorts of random stuff about topics you'd normally find unimportant until the moment strikes. Daniel, well, he's just a genius. Certified prodigy, computer hacker, book-writer, bagel-eater... the list continues for kilometers. And Justin's the level-headed, collected guy who plays most all of his cards right and still avoids looking like a douchebag.

The community we live in is referred to by Justin as "Auschwitz" and comes complete with security guards, 24/7 streetlamps, and a padlocked trash dumpster. We've got access to the swimming pool and hot tub, the tennis and basketball courts, the playground near the office, and hotties working out in the exercise building. I'm normally the one to check the mail, so I roll myself a cigarette and light it on my way. It's a lovely little walk, and most of the time the alleys/streets are filled with kids or skateboarders or people walking their dogs.

I'm not sure how long I'll be here, but it's really pretty nice.

Hmm... Is this sufficient?

To The Valley

Oh damn, it'll be hard to recover from this one, huh?

Last post: August 28th? Look, I hereby solemnly swear the following things:

1) I will dust off the cobwebs and dried semen, logging in and posting at least once a week.
2) I will continue the wonderful tradition of including one (1) photo at the end of each post.
3) I will fly like an eagle. An eagle of excellence and danger.
4) I will assume as usual that no one is reading this, and I will be honest and perhaps "raw".
5) I will expect each of you to bring me 100 scalps. And I want my scalps.