Cool

When I walked in, I could immediately tell they’d been talking about me. A couple of them sat watching the telly, and a few continued whispering while shooting glances at me. At least the music kept playing. The music did not pretend that it had not been playing before I came in.

I took a seat that had been left open for me and decided to play along. If they were not going to talk about the awkward situation I had put them in, I wasn’t either. I pretended to stare at the telly, though I could not figure out what was showing. Something about men in matching outfits running back and forth. I could feel each and every stare stabbing me repeatedly, and wanted to go around and punch each stare back into where it came from. But I had promised myself I would play it cool. Those are the promises I keep, so I sat there, cool like that.

She walked in and gave me the look reserved for strangers. The nerve! Her eyes tried very hard to tell me that she did not know who I was and couldn’t decide whether to head for the exit or not. She joined a whispering group and fueled the talk about me punctuated with silly laughs and giggles. Okay, I couldn’t hear them, but they kept looking up at me from time to time. I’m not crazy. I submit it for your judgment.

“What’ll you have?”

“Jack and coke.”

Everyone continued playing the self-assigned roles as I went through my drink. I pulled out a cool stick, lit it and took a puff. I’m cool like that. What happened to the whole idea of the human community and the rumors of man being a social animal? I saw no evidence of human connection in the pub, so I went outside to seek some form of contact.

I knew her car, and I knew how long she’d be inside talking to her friends. So I got my spray can and wrote a love letter on her windshield, her doors, her windows, the trunk, her hood, and then stuck a knife in her tires. It was all poetic. An eclectic collection of words that would bring a tear to her eye: an ‘F’ word, a couple of ‘C’ words, ‘whore,’ something about the ’suck’ verb.

Thoughts swirled in my head as I drove home. Maybe I should have asked her name. Maybe I should have told her mine. Maybe some of those words didn’t define her. Maybe I should have tried talking to her. Maybe I should not be having these thoughts. I’d had an amazing evening, because I’m cool like that.

The Tube

Because we got tired of running up and down the stairs. Because we kinds got tired of seeing each other daily. Because we still wanted to maintain some form of contact even though we’d broken up because she had a tooth-ache and wouldn’t carry out oral favors that one time even though I assured her that once she took some Vicodin she wouldn’t feel anything, but she went into an is-that-all-I-am-to-you fit instead and I was forced into an f-you-whore fit.

That’s why we had to get a nomadic tube.

I’m in a unique position of being a coffee junkie who cannot be allowed back into the only store that sells my favorite brand (I won’t address the allegations as the case is still in court and the judge issued a gag order). Scratch that. The store that sells the only brand of coffee that qualifies as coffee. It is so potent, so pure, that I believe the beans are sautéed with a dash of cocaine. I have to have a cup everyday otherwise I regress to a lower form of humanity that is calm, composed, rational, dull, nature-loving, animal-loving, and (knock on wood) human. I’ll have none of that docile existence, so coffee has to step in and hold me in its arm, lifting me with its wings to the plane of awesomeness.

She knew my problem and took up the duties of buying and brewing my coffee. After we broke up, I made it clear that I was accustomed to the lifestyle and she’d have to continue providing for that need. That’s my alimony. She moved into an apartment above mine, and so started my involuntary exercise.

So we had to get a nomadic tube. The idea was to have the nomadic tube on the respective balconies, and she would fill a cup with coffee, secure the lid, place the cup at one end of the tube, push a button and I would have coffee at the other end of the tube.

We called around and finally found a place that had nomadic tubes. They laughed at us, saying it was ‘pneumatic tube,’ not nomadic tube. And they wouldn’t sell it to us because we did not have documentation certifying that we were ‘Member FDIC.’

Time heals wounds, and we found a way of laughing at ourselves. Instead of using the word ‘No,’ now we say, “Yes, through the nomadic tube we don’t have.”

“Can I borrow $100?”

“Yes. I’ll send it through the nomadic tube we don’t have.”

“Can I get some head?”

“Yes, through the nomadic tube we don’t have.”

“Do I look fat?”

“Yes.”

Now I trudge everyday up the stairs for coffee under protest. Sometimes she’s gone for days and when she comes back I run up the stairs like a cute puppy, pour the coffee on the coffee table, make lines with a credit card and proceed to snort the powder through the nomadic tube we don’t have.

This is Just to say (Reapology)

To:

You

Reapology

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

I have sat for long hours in this confined facility and reflected on how my actions have landed me in the place of collective solitude. I believe in the rehabilitation process, and it requires me to take responsibility of my deeds.

I’m sorry for not knowing that your skull could not withstand the impact as it connected to my fist. I was under the impression that the bone in your skull, with the added advantage of having nothing inside, could have a fair chance against the collection of small bones clenched together.I also thought that all that banging against the headboard had given your head enough practice and it would be hardened against the forces fathomed against it.

I’m sorry for making an uninformed decision that your skull, having been compromised by a fist, would fare well against the brute force of a baseball bat. As you lay on the floor, I erroneously thought that your head was begging for a taste of the slugger. It’s easy to say now that I was foolish, but we both know it’s easy to judge after the fact: hindsight is 20-20.

Grabbing you by the hair and slamming your head repeatedly into the floor after the baseball interlude– while calling you, your mother and your grandmother names–was entirely regrettable. It was a case of bad timing on my part, especially since it came soon after the blood had started flowing. Should I have started by slamming your head into the soft, inviting cushion? One can never tell.

It was wrong of me to grab the phone from your hand as you tried to call for help and fail to beat you repeatedly in the head with it. I thought you were making a rash decision, and I did not want you to say something in the heat of the moment that you would later regret. That’s why I didn’t strike your head repeatedly with the headset. And I thought you were craving physical contact, after all you did say I don’t hold you like I used to.

However, I’m not sorry for wishing you were dead when you said those despicable things to me. That’s all on you; you apologize.

Yours sincerely,

Inmate XXXXX (I cant write my name, and I can’t release my number).

Insomnia

def: An inability to sleep often accompanied by another serious illness, restless leg syndrome. The restless leg syndrome comes about as a result of the brain trying to rock to the body to sleep, so a leg swings back and forth hoping to lull the body to sleep. The patient’s mind shifts into overdrive trying to figure out ways to overpower the world. The individual experiences visions of grandeur and suffers the delusion of taking charge while everyone else sleeps. This hubris ignores the fact that only half the world is asleep at any time. The world is only half-asleep all the time, so this brand of a take-over is not possible.

famous sufferers: Me. Famous not in the sense that everyone knows about it, but everyone the sufferer knows knows about it.

symptoms and signs: Watching the telly deep into the night and getting an added ability to recite late-night infomercials with eyes closed.

That’s when I saw an ad for hang-up inversion tables. A revolutionary new way to stay healthy in which the legs are strapped onto a “table” which is then tilted increasing the flow of blood into the brain. It is revolutionary in other ways. Everyone thinks that evolution did not screw up in making human beings walk upright. It’s a big mistake, except for the throwing-of-faeces part. That part is awesome, especially the yearning to collect everyone’s faeces, mix them together, add 2 parts water, blast the mixture through tubes into large water bodies, filter the water, consume, excrete, collect the faeces, repeat; all through a process known as the sewage system. It’s called recycling, and that part is good. Recycling is awesome, Al Gore said so. Yet something tells me he is not participating in this, seeing that he is so bloated. I think he is full of shit.

Evolution screwed up because as people walk upright, blood flow to the brain is limited, denying the brain oxygen, making it slightly dizzy. The light-headedness has been going on for so long that nobody notices, since everyone is high.

So the blood flows to the head as you lay on the hang-up inversion table, you see the world in a better light, get pissed off at all that’s happening, lose sleep in your anger, watch more infomercials, buy a lot of crap, go broke, get more pissed off, lose sleep, lose your house, lose more sleep, start giving blow-jobs for cocaine.

prevention: Come up with ideas like this that were “good at the time,” realize how full of crap you are, scare the shit out of yourself and sleep like a baby.

treatment: None.

alternative treatment: Give head for cocaine and skip all the symptoms.

alternative to the alternative treatment: Just sleep, goddammit.

Grandmother Paradox

The paradox came out at the same time as the more popular, and timeless, “Grandfather Paradox.” Because of obvious reasons which I’m about to present, it soon became forgotten and went to the afterlife reserved for high-minded, but dead, ideas: 8 track tape, beta tape, HD DVD, hovercraft, zeppelin, Fiat Uno, Nyayo Pioneer, solar-powered cars, and the United States of Africa.

The Grandfather Paradox: Suppose a man travels to the past and kills his biological grandfather before he meets and marries the murderer’s grandmother. Who killed him? Since one of the man’s parents will not be conceived, the man, by extension, does not exist.

The Grandmother Paradox: Suppose your biological grandmother travels to the future, has sex with you (by then an older man, her age), gets pregnant and comes back to give birth. Suppose further that she gives birth the same day you’re born. Is the kid your twin? What do you call him? What does he call you? Since the baby is clearly not your grandmother’s, is your grandmother a whore? Should the villagers take her outside the village limits and stone her to death?

The paradox failed because it has 2 suppositions, and the scenarios have more than one question, making it instead, “The Grandmother Paradoxes.” The thinkers then, and now, don’t like to handle suppositions with the 2nd person pronoun, “you,” which personalizes everything, making it hard to objectively consider the old woman a whore. These are the only reasons it failed to gain traction. Not because people were uncomfortable with having a woman in a paradox. Not because of the incest issues presented. Not because villagers had long stopped stoning whores. It had slightly to do with the sex part because then, as now, people prefer talking more about death than sex.

3 Dead Men Arrested for Playing Alive

Three dead men were arrested early Wednesday evening for walking around and pretending to be alive. The threesome was arrested shortly after they crashed a Halloween party when one of the invited guests noticed that they had no costumes.

One of the witnesses claimed that the men walked in an immediately started drinking.

The witness, a Gamorrean Guard, said that at first he did not think anything was wrong with the picture. However, his sensitive nose was soon overwhelmed with the smell of formaldehyde, a chemical used to preserve dead bodies. “I’m glad I work at the morgue,” he said, “otherwise who knows what they would have done?”

The Gamorrean Guard in full Star Wars costume smiled proudly taking pictures with the dead, while flashing the devil horns above the undead. He refused to give his real name.

The 3 walking corpses met each other at the cemetery for the first time, having separately some up with an idea to pull a Halloween prank. “If the living can wear mummy and zombie costumes,” said one “why can’t the dead pretend to be alive?”

The police showed up an hour after receiving the first call, thinking it was a big joke. The three had by then had their fill of alcohol, and were quietly led back to their graves in handcuffs.

It is curious to note that none of the living guests present thought anything strange about a man with half his face sawn off.

OCD

The alarm goes off and even though I’m awake, I hit “snooze.” It’ll go off again in 9 minutes and I’ll hit it one more time, eventually getting up at 5:18 am. There has to be some order in life, and if I control certain aspects of it, then I can have some peace within.

5:18 am, I get out of bed, even though I’ve been awake for over 20 minutes. I take off my t-shirt, fold it carefully and place it in the drawer. I go to the bathroom and lay everything on the sink, side-by-side: comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, soap, dental floss, mouthwash. I apply enough toothpaste to cover the bristles, brush my teeth, and replace the toothbrush and paste in the starting line-up. I then soap my face and rinse it off, before taking off my shorts and stepping in the shower.

I stand under the lukewarm stream for 60 seconds, soap my body, rinse, soap and scrub, rinse, then stand under the cold shower for 60 seconds. I jump out, dry myself and stand nude at the sink. I cream my face, shave whatever excuse I have for a beard and put the razor and cream in the cabinet. I close my eyes and say what I have to 7 times, “3-1-4.”

I open my eyes and apply enough toothpaste to cover all bristles, and brush my teeth one more time. I put the paste and brush in the can, then pull out a strip of floss and clean up 7 gaps while saying “3-1-4″ for each hole. I ignore the front gap, trash the strip and get another for the next set of 7 gaps. By the time I’m done flossing, I’ve said my 35th “3-1-4″ of the day. 4 more to go.

I gurgle the mouthwash and while the horrible taste scares away plaque, I put my left hand on my right breast and rub, tug, rub. No tumor. Right hand, left breast, rub, tug, rub. No tumor. I spit the mouthwash, rinse my mouth, “3-1-4.” I place the mouthwash and dental floss in the cabinet, wash my hands with soap, “3-1-4.”

I go into my room, get the clothes I already have arranged on the bed. The clothes were picked last night, and have been waiting all night to feel the warmth of my body. I respect their wishes. Today, I’m in all gray, including the thong. “3-1-4″ after I’m dressed, and “3-1-4″ as I look at the clock with a 5:50 am stare. I grab my bag, duck into the bathroom, run the comb through my hair, toss it in the cabinet, walk out of the bathroom, and walk out the door, knowing I’ll catch the 6am train. I don’t have breakfast; I need the literal hunger to provide fuel for the metaphorical hunger.

I have a disorder which, together with the facial hair, is my curse. I’m a kleptomaniac. As I walk, “3-1-4″ becomes words, “3 hits, 1 for good luck.” I only pick 4 pockets on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. At least I have that under control.

Bow-wow-wow-wow-you

    I turned the key in the ignition and for a split-second I heard a sound that almost sounded like words. Memories of my childhood came rushing forth. In her infinite wisdom and adept skills at bullshit that come with her position, my mother told me what the dog says when barking. Bow. Bow wow wow wow wow. Who. Who are you you you?

Being dumb enough and obedient enough to my elders, I believed her. It made perfect sense that the dog only barks at a stranger because he is just making an honest inquiry. The dog is merely a Jehovah’s Witness with fangs, ready to make friends.

A few days after the all-important lesson in dog-speak, I got to make myself known.

Bow. Bow wow wow wow wow?

Sembe.

Bow. Bow wow wow wow wow?

Sembe. This time a little louder, thinking the dog was a bit deaf.

Bow. Bow wow wow wow wow?

SEMBE. Loudly and slowly, just in case the dog was deaf and could read lips.

Then he bit me.

That was the first and last time a dog sank its fangs in my flesh. I have since learnt two things: The whole who-are-you-you-you was my mother’s way of telling me men are dogs (How else can a man understand what a dog says?). Two, “Sembe” in dog-language means “Bite me.”

Asterix

This was just another form I was filling out and I pretended to do it as I always did: Focus on the asterisks and forget everything else that has a touch of optional. Last name, first name, DOB, address line 1, address line 2, city, state, zip code. I considered filling out sex since it had no asterisk, but I was sure everyone was familiar with the as-often-as-I-can jab. Being in a good mood I filled out ethnicity, the politically-correct version of race. What’s the worst that could happen?

Second runner-up to the worst that could happen reared its head and I got a much needed lesson in human nature.My decision to declare my ethnicity had no repercussions until a half-black half-white native of Hawaii decided to run for President. Suddenly it became important to know how black and white people each vote. The much needed lesson in human nature states that black people do not think like white people. Apart from the ‘people’ part, these are 2 distinct species and anyone running for public office needs to know how the 2 think and cater for specific needs.

The skin pigmentation plays a crucial role in the composition of human consciousness. Human consciousness is commonly called thought, way of thinking, and this takes place in the entire body. For someone to think a particular way about anything, the whole body plays a part. The brain normally takes all the credit, but in actual fact the skin pigments have spheres of thought which pulsate at a particular frequency. The skin pigments on black people have a set frequency, and this leads to similar likes and dislikes. Same case goes for skin pigments on white people. This explains why black people can dance and white people can swim.

If you look in the mirror, and determine your skin pigmentation, but cannot decide how to vote or think, just watch the news. There are polls that show how many black or white votes a candidate got. That is usually a good way of knowing how to vote because as I said, like skin pigments pulsate at a set frequency. These statistics are also important in determining where to open a Kentucky Fried Chicken and where to set up a Taco Bell.

The next time I fill out a form I’ll leave the ethnicity line blank. No more asterix. I’ll be devoid of thought. What I’ll be thinking, how I’ll be thinking is anybody’s guess. God have mercy.

Uncomfortable Silence

The neck-bone is connected to the spine-bone, the spine-bone is connected to the ass-bone, the ass-bone is connected to the thigh-bone, the thigh-bone is connected to the eye-bone… Eye-bone? Eye-bone? She’s staring at me again, trying to read me or see through me. There she goes interrupting my thoughts again.

In her defense, she is just wondering why I’m so silent. I’ve seen this case before. Here we are having dinner/coffee, watching a movie/sunset (maybe I exaggerate a bit. The sunset is not the point here!), and suddenly we’re quiet. Maybe it’s because I don’t talk during movies. I’m not that black goddammit! Maybe it’s because I like to give my mouth a breather. Meanwhile she goes on def-con 5. Def-con 1… (Def-con is not the point here!) “Where’s the chemistry?” the panic in her eye’s seems to ask. “Am I boring? Is he boring? Does he hate me? Does he not want to be here? Is it my clothes? Am I smelling? My hair? He didn’t notice my hair! Oh my God, he hates it! He’s trying to figure out a way to say it! Lord please take me away…”

Meanwhile I like the hair and just ran out of ways of saying the same thing over and over. The clothes could be worked on but I’m neither a stylist nor that gay goddammit! to articulate myself. I don’t care about the clothes. I’m here, am I not? If I didn’t enjoy her company I wouldn’t be here. I would have very gently hinted that I didn’t want to see her again saying, “I’m sorry I can’t stand you. It’s not me…”

She fidgets and I’m reminded of her presence which is very uncomfortable about the silence. I open the gates and ramble about the sun, the wind, the coalition formed by weather elements and how it all shows that we are ordained by the gods and any time we go quite, the gods get a chance to talk amongst themselves. This dissertation reminds her how interesting I am and she LOLs… I mean she laughs.

We sit silently and the ass-bone is connected to the thigh-bone, the thigh-bone is connected to the knee-bone, the knee-bone is connected to the tear-bone… Tear-bone? Tear-bone? I purse my lips and whistle a tune. That’ll shut up the voices in my head. That’ll shut up the silence.