The Dating puddle, that shallow, stagnant, algae-laden spot of murky dreams where only fungi and frogs flourish. Where the grass is greener but so is the mould.

Perhaps love is sought after by all. Yet, the many muddy tributaries we swim to find it are much varied. I am caked in the leftover sediment of the dating puddle. It's left an existential funk layered on in a grit and grim clay mask that some women would pay anything for at an overpriced spa that promises it will "clear the pores, and heal the soul."

Well my skin looks like shit and my soul is on strike, darlings. I am taking my swimmies off. No more shall I hope for being an olympic swimmer in the dating puddle of disaster. I am walking out, filthy and tired, like a creature of some sewage-swamped lagoon who only wants a hot shower or a dip in a Marriot pool to exorcise the demons with antibacterial soap or chlorine. Only then will things be made right again.

I had a date recently. Well, I don't know if I can call it that, as I refused for years to use the term "date" at all. I think it's a horrid term. A date is a number on a calendar, not a typical attempt by one or more people to get laid, get fed, or find love. We all like to fuck, eat, and act ridiculously due to another arbitrary person just because. . . calling him or her 7 times talking in a pseudo-language that only made sense in toddler years . . . that jibberish new mommies,  Carebears, and fluffy golden puppies would frown upon. Sure , we all love it- but let's come back to planet earth for a moment, shall we? My throat can only take the helium-cute voice for so long before it's time to grow up or get out.

Back to it. Bill and I have some mutual friends. He is an acquaintance, an associate who sparked my interest because he is available, intelligent, well-kempt, and interested in me. Now, you may think, "Available? How is that your first listed criterion?" It sounds obvious. But lately, many of the tadpoles in the puddle of love have had ladies in smaller ponds elsewhere. Not a preferable situation to be in. Intelligence is crucial, and a hard trait to find in the puddle. . . so this seemed a bonus. As far as appearance, that is flexible. I have swam with many tadpoles of many shapes, scents and styles. Few would have been sassy enough to take to a formal event, or to Grandma's for supper. Believe me, noone is good enough according to the old broad, but a little cleanliness makes a big fish in a small pond. Thus,  it was a good thing. Finally, he seemed interested in me. He would come by simply to say hi; then he left a few messages for me while I was sick. He even called me the first day he returned home from a trip to visit family. I was pleasantly surprised. I was doing nothing to keep ties but returning his calls when I had time. A lack of obsessive-compulsive communication was refreshingly casual. It all seemed natural. Now I felt ready to get to know Bill.

We made plans to have dinner with some friends mid-week, and then we would watch a movie at his apartment. Casual. Dinner went well. The food was fine and the conversation moved with ease and wit. He was charming, which is easy to fall for. I was slightly suspicious, but not alarmed. We went to the nearby apartment, where I was impressed by order, cleanliness, and the decor. This was no man's place, lest he be obsessive-compulsive. My heart rang back sorely to the days of living with my OCD ex's, when everything had its place and way, graphed to the exact angle and crease of the universe. It was lovely and disturbing. The sofa was lined with a white chenille throw, the pillows and drapes and throw rugs matched impeccably, and there were healthy plants all around (indicating he can nurture a living thing, so rare. . . .) He was either a snobby, mentally ill little genius, or a manipulative bachelor who wanted to lure and lower the naked ass of his date onto the down pillows and freshly dry-cleaned duvet of the full-size bed. I was still impressed that a man would go to all that trouble to impress a woman. I have to remember to mail the boys of Queer Eye a thank you card.

We settled in to watch the movie, one of many of my favorites that lined his shelf. The lights were low, though I did not take this as an invitation to mate, as I was still sick of which he was aware. One goodnight kiss, and he would be duvet-bound with mono for months. This had become a running joke between us, that we could not kiss for a while. I was happy to take things slowly out of necessity. After all, it was a new year, and I wanted to try new things.

We sat silently watching the screen as dusk doused the windows with a lavendar light. He leaned against me a little, and we were comfortable there. Less than fifteen minutes into the movie, he stopped watching the movie and started watching me. A bit awkward as I was still watching the movie. He brought his hand to my face, lightly touching my cheeks and hair. Endearing, but a bit odd as it was out of nowhere. I hadn't so much as held his hand or removed my zip-up winter sweater, under which I had a long sleeve shirt, to reveal any female form. The caresses moved around the neck, over the hair, down the cheeks and to the collarbone, pre-chest area. It was a quick move, to broach groping before kissing, but neo-Napolean was plunging ahead strategically into battle, or my bra. I was interested in the on-screen protagonist Donnie's dilemma with his surreal family and a bunny named Frank, but my date was interested in my sweet underthings.

I made a few sarcastic remarks about his approach. . .  "Are you always this accomodating to women the first time they come to your place?" and the like. . . I zipped up my newly unzipped sweater. I moved back to my side of the couch. He seemed to get it, but you can't teach an old dog jack shit. Rather you can't teach any dog anything, unless you have a treat to enforce the behavior. Napoleon was going straight for the biscuits, stealing them from the counter top instead of sitting or staying.

Despite my continually remarked upon discomfort, he kept on. I will not be unfair and say it was all awful all the time. He is attractive and I was turned on when he began to lick at my neck or earlobe. Then again, if the wind hits these spots the right way, the effect is no different. The approach and delivery was not sexy. It dehydrated me like he was pouring dust and salt in to my mouth when all I wanted was a nice cold one. I was parched- and it was not from the popcorn.

At some point, I realized that my efforts were futile. It was easier to give him the porn show he wanted than to offer a rematch at another time and place after he masturbated alone and I had a drink. Had I called Miss Cleo and found out my night's future, I would have sent a picture instead, so my favorite bra would not have been stained. Similarly, if I wanted to jerk off in someone's bed, I would gladly do so if we knew each other and it was part of the routine of our sexual relationship. Just a tip for the gents who think it's hot to stick a girl's hand down her own pants on the first "date."

PS: I wiped jizz on that faggoty* duvet.

*use of the word faggoty is not to imply any homophobia, biggotry or ill will toward homosexuals of any kind. Rather, it used as an ignorant, elementary school minded jab at the metrosexual in question who hides his predatorial nature toward women and generally misogynistic and pornographic fantasy under the guise of a sensitive, well-dressed, fashionable veneer. I love homosexuals and support Mayor West's stance on gay marriage.)

Yeah so here it is. I have Mono. I can still move, mostly, but this is wacked out. Currently I'm typing with my only functional muscle, my tongue. I guess that's how this trouble started to begin with. . .

As if having Mono isn't lame enough, I started puking the other day and couldn't stop. I mean full on, bile-purging love. Couldn't keep water down. Sucked on ice cubes. Almost hurled on many students, papers and colleagues. Finally, went to the ER.

In the ER, you see and hear many strange things. One might be Edith, the woman in the psych ward who "wants her meds." She shuffles up and down the hallway, until a security guard leads her back to the room at the end just past my curtained area. Over and over again. She has a speech impediment. "I wama medsth." "I wama paxthl." She is not much older than 30. Glasses. Mousy brown hair, straight, in her eyes. Shuffle shuffle shuffle.

Across the hall you see the man with tattoos on his room phone, loud. "I gotta see the surgeon. I'm in the ER! They found a growth in  my pelvis. . . "
A tech walks by and asks if he needs more morphine. "Did I tell ya they already gave me morphine?" I want to be in that room.

The heavy happy nurse makes me comfortable. She sits me up, positioning the sad excuse for a craftmatic adjustible so that I can relax. I know it's a gurney with a pad on it. Everything is functional in the ER. I respect the equipment.

It's cold in the ER. Nipple-rock cold. I'm glad I left my bra on under the flimsy pilled gown. It ties in the wrong places, and drapes open if I lean too far in any direction. For fat people. The happy nurse sees me shivering after she plucks my vein and brings me a second sheet straight from the dryer. "Feels like Bermuda, doesn't it?" Who knew? A Bermuda day on a December Kingston night. I love dryer fresh clothes, so I cuddle under it's veneer. The saline drip drip drips.

Shuffle, shuffle. Meds. Morphine. "I need a good meal!" The man across the hall is protesting his sugar count. "Of course it's terrible. I'm diabetic and I haven't eaten all day!"

Drip. Drip.

Happy nurse announces, "Now I need some urine." I've always got plenty of that, honey. Help yourself. She pushes a bed pad under me "just in case." I remember aloud that we used the same kind for the terminally ill cat I nursed for a year, until he died in September. Catheter time. The tube is small and silly. It isn't long enough. Happy nurse comes back with the big one and a bag. I figure this can't feel any worse than the vice grip-salad tong- Q-tip slam at Planned Parenthood. Here goes. "Deep breath," she says. Done. Happy nurse is going for her Bachelor's and has 2 cats and a golden-shepherd mix. I tell her they make better friends than most people. She nods.

I drift in and out of the shuffle, the meds, the drips. A tech turns off my light.

Happy nurse checks my lactated ringers and pops some anti-nausea meds into the IV. Good times. 

When it's done, I smell like old people. I know what is in store. The urine smell, the blood stained sheets, the cold. I could never fall asleep easily anywhere. Not even home. I don't mind hospitals, but hate the idea of having to stay there alone overnight. But from 7-12:30, I got some great nap time in. Best sleep in years. Thank you, mono. Thank you, stomach virus.

*** (more later)

There is something about men that makes women love everything they swore to hate as little girls kneeling bedside, recalling everything their fathers did to make their mothers cry, throw dishes, smoke too much, fuck other men, fuck other women, or kneel bedside praying too late.

By the time I loved everything about Mike that would become hate, it was too late. His sarcasm, his fine blond hair, his chain smoking, his fuck-all attitude, his poetry, his gaunt body that pressed mine hard, making hugs hurt. I thought that love had to prick. I thought it had to burn like his cigarrete. I wanted to freeze him clean. I wanted to be enough, always to be enough and I was stupid enough to think he would be enough for me.

He raised me up and called me princess. Princess! Gave me a tiara and butterflies and made me come at the same time hard in his black velour bed delirious from undergrad hangover sleep-deprivation infatuation. The post dorm equivalent of love. We drove to Jersey to watch the sunrise, held hands, ate at shitty diners, slept late, worked late, discussed, analyzed created a galaxy that only we could inhabit. He taught me how to drink coffee at 3am and wine at 9am. I taught him that after dusk, the sky dripped light from the black branches of everywhere trees. He taught me that seeing that light isn't enough. I taught him screaming judgement, then he taught me saying silence.

Don't live with another writer. I stopped everything I loved to do and hated it because I was not doing it. Especially writing. Then I hated it more because he was writing and I wanted to but thought I wasn't good enough to compete. I couldn't write a sentence until the end. I couldn't write about not knowing where he was for 3 weeks when the bills were late, and I had nothing but my failed reconstruction of the artist formerly known as my boyfriend. The one I painted my first apartment with. . .the Calvin Klein Christ wannabe bad backstreetboy cokewhore suicide junky. The lovely boy who sang to me in a garden on campus drunk on red box wine with a sharp guitar- even if he was out of tune, I loved it, until I grew to hate it; his voice, his red faced resentment, his songs, his slim, dark sleep, seemingly oblivious to the white blanketed idealism with which I would cover him. The polarized feelings were not much different from one another, if you want to know. Everything repressed becomes an overexposed negative of itself.

And I grew to hate the wine too. She poured down his throat liquid muse and I temporary. He stopped talking to write his first novel, shutting me out of our study. Grace should have been dedicated to Franzia, not me and his next girlfriend. . . Everything I loved about him, I'm glad I left with her.

Of course I am not innocent with men. That is not what nature intended. I have desired everything I could not have and have what I didn't really desire unless it was there at the wrong time. There were ex's, best friend's, boyfriend's bestfriend's, colleagues, internet affairs, ex friend's ex's, ex friend's sister's ex's, arrogant artists, great thinkers, regulars, outpatients, brothers, deejays, drummers, date rapists, men who lived in their parents' basement, smart men without jobs, engaged men, pierced men, men with sons, cats, pitbulls, mothers who ruined them, fathers that didn't know how to be men, leaving men for me to learn to fuck up. Lots of them.

They are best when they are not quite had. When they have that man-thing that you cannot grab. In high school there was another Mike- thanks to all the mothers with Mikes- it makes remembering easier. . the guitar star artist pot head sex hot small dicked anti-love. I wanted nothing more than him, but he left me and let me suck his dick every few months instead of the kiss. He'd say things like, " I love you more than I could ever have imagined. You are the best one." And I, never pretty enough, would call, would buy birthday presents, would drive, would swallow, would never have him again. I dated and fucked and loved, but only wanted him. Wherever you are, you're an asshole. But you knew that. I'd collect back pay pussy licking if I thought you knew how.

And Greg. . . smart Greg. Impress me with your arrogance! Recite the Psychology text you read in class last hour. Analyze me. Be dark. Darker. Yell at me like the father I don't have. Tell me I'm the whore I am because I wanted you to be what you always wanted to be: right. I'm glad you still think so.

And Dave, first love Dave. Older and shorter, long haired Dave. My first at 14, the boy who lit candles and Christmas lights, gave me music, and profound letters, laughter in the park, under the blanket tents, his hand, his trust, his skin. What an experiment! And Greg, now married Greg. . . I took him from you, Dave, angrily, only to end my first love. . .

But could I love then? Did I love Dave when I pushed him onto my mother's bed the first time? Or we soulkissed to "Three Days?" Or I pushed him down my mother's stairs and chased him down the street screaming, caught him and slapped him hard, my nails scratching a to-be-continued reminder, like red clay paths trailing across his olive face?

And Paul, Christian, and Matt.

Felix.

Tom. Riding the see saw. Flowers. The mole under your nose.

Casey. Gorgeous hippy man. Light blue Malibu. Freckles, filth, and naked Barbie doll rearview mirror hanged.

Jon. Too rich too good too gone.

Brandon. Sucked drunk you off at a party. Dave's cousin in the same room a year later.

Matt, home from California. Fuck you for not fucking me, thinking I was a whore, after you had the biggest whore.

Matt. Fuck you for being too Gemini and moving to Colorado. For making me skip community college classes. For singing to me blue with concrete hands. For driving me home. For knowing something I am afraid of.

Jerry. For making and unmaking me at once. For calling and not. For fucking me into thinking I want you. For not knowing what to do about it. For not doing about it. For holding the baby inside me in an imagined future, before it was unmade because it was without making.

For Brian who writes things like, "You are a fake," then " I need you to keep me warm, " then " I am the greatest film maker alive." A big dick does not make you God. A great film will make you famous, but not fortunate. I wish you all you desire, which is all I despise.

To Kevin, I thought I deserved a nice boy. I was wrong.

To Jason, thanks for fucking me without touching, for fucking me harder than all the men that made me bleed on you in daylight, gray-skinned, yellow with sleeplessness, sick with the sickness. You are all that you deny, as am I. Hold my hand in the night and walk with me down the gravel path, going nowhere but together. Leave me at the breakfast table, in the hallway of the dorm, in the elevator, the office, the car, follow me drunk, lead me sober, saying "you don't think we'll ever be?" As another women waits for her time to break on the beach your camera painted for me. She loves you, but cannot stay. I roll out with her in the tired tide.

Ian, fucking Ian. There is nothing left but you leaving. You are all men I ever loved that became hate. Only you drew it out in a spitfire breath, branding me with your black mark. Your love, a concentration camp, a carnival, a high school crush, a woman's first maybe last. A hit and run. The coma of denial closed over me like a warm oak coffin lid, and me, sleeping far too long in the Kahlo painting of our togetherness. Stop saying "when I unfuck myself," "when I come to see you," "when we are. . .again." Stop saying "we," "us," "our problem was," "my fault," "too much speed," "In a few years." Save your talk for your son. You cannot give me everything then nothing again. And I dream enough alone, without you repainting the same cracked images that I hold in the sad museum of memory.

Heartbreak. How cliched. I mean not even gut -punching, long-term heart break. Just a cut enough to feel, right in the spleen, some slicing loss. Not big enough to bleed it of its malaise-grey chartreuse colored juices. Enough to let them drip out, poisoning everything insidiously. A slow, sweet, oblivious death that never kills you, but makes you tired and ache with it. Emotional, physical and intellectual arthritis. My soul is menstruating.

These cramps will pass. The inflammation will go down after some time. The joints will never move with ease, but that's from years of wear. Not from this one. But my, how lovely he is. How this would hurt more had I let myself believe that perhaps, age doesn't matter. No. That's not it. Age doesn't have to matter. Circumstances do. Note to self: stop falling for men who are still embedded in other women. When was the last time I was that woman? The great oevre? The object to live for. To desire. To obtain. To endure?

Not much endures, we know. Life passes, grandma and dad and the dog will die. Children die. I killed some worms today, but I almost ran off the road for a mouse. What sense exists? Only that we choose what and whom to love. It is a decision. We decide to move away for our own betterment, or we decide to stay, sometimes much longer than we should have. There's a lot of thought in feeling. Sometimes too much and we choose wrongly.

But what else is there but this? The sadness after understanding that it is not time, I am or he is not right? The understanding is, after all, the worst part. There is nothing juvenile in uncertainty; not knowing how to feel about that man/woman object or relationships&nbs p;reflects a mature acknowledgement of deeper levels of circumstance. Nor is certainty in walking away juvenile if the feet follow a path that is undefined, yet somehow very secure and clear as it is undertaken.

Understood: "agreed upon; assented to. implied but not stated; left unexpressed" (Random House College Dictionary: Revised Unabridged ed. 1984). Thus, I stand still. I have stepped away and there is not regret. I have stayed too long, and some regret stayed a little while beside me. All the while, I have understood. That is, stood under someone else's needs, or my own needs, quietly whispering only those words presently: "I understand."

 This is my sympathy ring

for all the women who fell in battle-

I feel you; but I've been to 6 weddings

in less than 6 months and I’m done-

finished with the RSVP’s, the gift bags,

the cards, done with the bar games,

the puking bachelorettes in hotels,

the sickeningly sweet butter cream layer cake,

the vows, done with the ring-cleaning

and dress fitting, forget photography and the weather,

the mothers, church and state.

I declare war on marriage.

Not love, but marriage.

The toast, the song, the maids, the license,

the tax break, the new name, the registry, planners,

caterers, deejays, the garter and cummerbund.

I want to take it out in one fell swoop.

I want to launch all weapons of mass destruction

on the mass media’s love for commercializing love.

I want to wear designer dresses by Maggie Sottero

and Vera Wang to Shop Rite for no reason

because pomp and circumstance requires neither-

only a touch of madness. And I have that.

Thus, I remain one.

This is my sympathy ring

for the women that fought single and lost.

It’s for those who had to say “I do,”

while the rest of us were doing it

alone.

Where were you during the 2004 election tally? What were you doing?  I imagine myself, should I ever reach celebrity status and get my 15 minutes of real ultimate power, pondering my answer.

Well, Barbara, I was on my couch getting eaten out by a twenty year old intellectual. That's right. While the world squirmed in the anticipation of not knowing, I squirmed in the anticipation of knowing that I would orgasm despite another four years of war, incoherent public speeches, and neglectful leadership in a country that sleeps under the guise of democracy, "with liberty and justice for all."

In fact, the best part of this election was the aural/oral sex. As Americans have again denied themselves the right to have an intelligent (or at least a verbally capable) president who seems intelligent, I wonder what they were doing during the debates? Were they sucking each other off instead of listening? How did they come, unless they believed the trite attempts at political pillow talk that this administration& nbsp;layed down with the candles and cheap wine only matched by those in a Danielle Steele novel? Didn't they know the lines were only to get them into bed? If they couldn't hear through the come ons, couldn't they hear the complete, logical sentences of their peers? Couldn't they keep their clothes on long enough to analyze the bullshit? (People, if you can't and multitask, keep your pants on. Sex, political jargon, and alcohol should not be combined. Chances are you will only breed more incapable simpletons)

While The Daily Show covered the absurdity of the campaign, and CBS pretended to keep it real, there was one group of fresh journalists that delivered the truth home. They were misfits, men and women with disabilities that got in the faces of political harlots and useless celebs. Their head interviewer, Susan Harrington, asked Ted Koppel how he felt at the Democratic Natty Convention as other members of the team interrogated Ben Affleck and Hill Clinton inquiring, "What is your next movie?" and "What is the difference between a Democrat and a Republican?" Still, some like Pataki couldn't take the friendly fire of being interviewed by those he deems lesser. Yet, I ask him: "Do you really think George Bush is smarter than Corky from Life Goes On?" His silence admits what we all know. To quote my fortune from China House: "Prejudice is the child of ignorance." (as Pataki is to Bush). This preview of the SAT analogy section has been brought to you by education: the key to a new America where "No child left behind" gets shipped off to the video game combat zone of Iraq.

While we are sucking Bush's dick, and Dick is sucking ass, and assholes are sometimes pussy, and are getting fucked and shit on (Team America, 2004) nothing is changing. We still wake each morning, eat our Cheerios, bagels, or toaster streudels, swallow the recession in small gulps of Maxwell House and Folgers. We still ship the kids off to school in great yellow tanks, and lead ourselves to the 9-5 jihad of the daily, less-than-livable-wage grind. We still go to church, or make prayer to our toasters and telephones. We still sit in our cars at the bank drive-thru, or rent dvd's that show heroes saving western civilization from aliens, monsters, or terrorists. We still fail to understand that "Live ignorance rots us worse than any grave" (Philip Whalen).

So when someone asks me what I think of this election, I will tilt my head back and think of the plaster peeling from my ceiling, that my September rent remains unpaid and my car uninspected, that my mother and I will have to work years after we are dead to break even, and I will say, "As expected." I will continue to declare war on politics by stripping in front of my landlord's 55 inch television as the men tally the votes, and I will laugh at Ohio, Pennsylvania, and the Bible belt with the decent young man at my side. Soon enough, he may be off to the front line. . .

Like all girls with her name, Ashley was pretty in a natural and thoughtful way. She carried her dark cascading curls lightly, whipping them around her shoulders as she turned to reply. Yet, she was as uncertain as any 16 year old girl, afraid of making her way through school, being liked by boys, finding time outside of babysitting her sister to hang out with her friends. Unfortunately, escap ing her chores wasn't that easy.

With no father and a mother who worked full time but still couldn't afford to support her family, Ashley was forced to help around the house all she could. Cleaning, babysitting, and the like are not outrageous expectations of a teenager. Yet, Ashley found herself doing the dishes and laundry all the time, as well as caring for her sister, Hope. Hope was only 2 and needed a mother's attention. Ashley became a surrogate mother as a result. Everyday, Ashley suffered through hours of videos of a singing purple dinosaur. I love you, you love me. . . . it was a Barney hell ride. Hope knew all the words and sang the songs over and over again. Baby Bop was her heroine. She adored the crackhappy wannabe muppet. She jumped up and down on the brown plaid, piss and coffee-stained couch until Ash thought the last springs might burst through their ancient burlap covers, murdering her sister. Being the oldest, she would be accused of child neglect and thus sentenced to death by Barney.

Paula wasn't a bad mother. She loved her daughters intensely. She was acutely aware of her financial ineptitude. She drove an Ambulette, carting handicapables and geriatrics around to make the rent. She was a large woman who wore her life story on the sandpaper of her skin. Her teeth were jagged and coming out, her hair unkempt. Her house, despite Ashley's efforts, always smelled of powdery baby wipes, dirty pull-ups, cigarette smoke, bacon, and macaroni and cheese. She was famous for her toaster waffles and strong, cheap coffee of the morning.  (unfinished. . .)

A recent instant message that needs some commentary. . . I'll be blogging about the farm this week if I find some energy, or pseudoephedrine and coffee.

P: YOU FORGOT POLAND!
noevilstar74: ?
noevilstar74: Pardon?
P: its cryptic
P: its from the debate
noevilstar74: I never forget my native land
noevilstar74: LOL
P: no...i suppose not
P: ok...well, enough cryptic messages
P: must be going
P: poland calls not to be forgotten
noevilstar74: beotch
P: rawr
noevilstar74: meow
noevilstar74: do you know the sound a deer makes when you hit it
noevilstar74: ?
P: thud?
noevilstar74: lol
noevilstar74: nooo
P: mrrreeeeooooo
P: ?
noevilstar74: (to be said like the swedish chef) BeeeJORK!
noevilstar74: I've heard it
PowdeerdToastman: haha
noevilstar74: !
P: you hit a deer?
noevilstar74: not lately
noevilstar74: I only sucker punched him
noevilstar74: owed me money
P: what a jerk
noevilstar74: lame
noevilstar74: fuck Bambi
P: you shoulda made venison out that mutha fucka
noevilstar74: bitch ass trick
noevilstar74: lol
noevilstar74: I don't like venison
P: i'd have cut his antlers off and forced them up his ass
noevilstar74: but I like venison sausage
noevilstar74: !
noevilstar74: worked on a farm
P: you like deer sausage?
noevilstar74: that's all we ate
noevilstar74: Shut up.
noevilstar74: :-D
P: i've had deer jerky before
P: it's not bad
noevilstar74: I"m sure you have
P: my friend didn't tell me it was deer when i ate it, i found out when a deer came to my house and shot my mother
noevilstar74: I don't like jerky of any kind
noevilstar74: !
P: he said: this is for bambi, asshole
noevilstar74: lol
noevilstar74: nice
noevilstar74: Did you rape his kids in the name of Thumper?
P: no...in the name of science
noevilstar74: Then it's excusable
noevilstar74: research and all
P: i said, this is evolution bitch
noevilstar74: werd
P: im on top of the food chain, evolutionary chain and im on top of you

P: i must be off
noevilstar74: off with ya
P: i have deer to kill
P: off wit me!
noevilstar74: Deer Killa
P: head
noevilstar74: later
noevilstar74: pop a cap in one for me
P: later cat
P: oh don't worry, ill pop many a cap for ya
noevilstar74: Nice! Bye
P: Bustin' up does.

Remember elementary school? The name-calling, the hair-pulling, the principal's office, the chalky air of the classrooms? The musty stench of the cool library? Recess, gym class, and Field Day. . . . tug of war, relay races, the dangers of dodgeball, the broken knuckles from scooters? Remember all the odd teachers?

Mrs. Whitney was my gym teacher. She wasn't particularly buff, or manly, like high school gym teachers I've seen. Rather, she was lean and toned, sinewy strong. Like a well-aged pro tennis player, her physique remained well into her final years. She carried herself limberly, with a grace I have never possessed even in my twenties. She sported the Mary Lou bob cut, though grey with white streaks, contrasting her tan, leathery skin. Kind, but tough, she never hesitated to call kids out if they dropped the ball, yelling a jovial but dreaded title of  "butterfingers!"

One day we assembled in a circle, sitting cross-legged on the mustard gymnasium floor, tracing the scattered red and black lines that indicated in or out borders with our small, nervous fingertips. When Mrs. Whitney finally emerged from the equipment room, a strange rope harboring dustballs and an indecipherable attachment, our eyes grew wide with horrific ideas of what may come.

As we soon learned, the game of the day was called "jump the doughnut," though there were no jelly-filled snacks visible.  We stood in a circle, Mrs. Whitney at its center. We moved back a few awkward steps, as she began to swing the rope with a dingy maroon rubber thing tied to its end; it looked like a giant jelly bracelet. This "doughnut" didn't look appetizing in the least. So began our objective: to jump the red ring as it flew fiercely towards us, ready to annihilate our tender young ankles.

It seems that rubber would be a sensible choice of material for the doughnut, as it is not too hard, like plastic. But let me stress now that rubber "doughnuts" flying at astronomical speed into crucial joints, ligaments, and tendons may cripple any man, woman, child, or animal, temporarily for a trip to the nurse's office, or permanently for a terrifying trip to the ER.

Worse than the rubbery ankle-lashing were the rope burn ensnarements, when the doughnut would swish around ankles, and the rope, drug along kinetically, wrapped itself around both legs of an unlucky player. There were also some cruciate ligament casualties when Mrs. Whitney would allow a student to swing the doughnut, vengefully, with a menancing grin from the miniature eye of the jump the doughnut tornado.

Despite the injuries, jump the doughnut became a favorite game in gym class with Mrs. Whitney. If only it were recognized by the Olympics as a valid competition, I think I would have quit my books and followed my true calling in life: getting my ass kicked by the elderly in front of my peers.  :)

There’s an angry Asian woman who cleans my office. Well, our office. You see, at a state university that pays 2000 per class, per semester, only the full-timers, ex chairs, and dept. heads get singles. I’m not sure why she’s angry; maybe she’s not. I mean she’s got health benefits and make a shitload more than me with my Master’s degree, which collects dust to add to its integrity on my closet shelf. If I were still at the first grad. school apartment, I’d have it up on the wall next to every other degree that got me here. Sadly, that apartment, that man, and that life belong to someone who doesn’t exist in this body.  And me, yes, I’m the angry one. After long years of Calvinistic luck, I suspect even Gandhi would throw a few punches. Instead, I sit here typing, drinking tea after a long day at the end of a long month at the start of a long year, knowing that it will all be over and pointless someday anyway. But that is no way to live; that is no way for an idealist to think. After a while though, those awkward moments I promised myself would never be awkward, have become only that, intensified only by my former state of denial. For example, as I sit here the angry Asian janitor (Janitress? Equal rights baby! Dominatrix of Dust? Kung Fu Cleaner? Whatever. . .) opens the door and when I say “hello?” confirming that she is not an assassin here to end me, she says nothing. Then, she turns on all the fluorescent lights- ruining my reading by 1970’s lamp ambiance- and begins vacuuming. Okay. That’s cool. You do your job, I’ll do mine. When I get up to move a few bags from the floor in her way, I say, “You scared me. I didn’t know who was here.” Hardly looking up, she turns with a clink of too many keys, and tackles the evil bunnies under desks, in hard to reach corners, around bookshelves. I sit back down next to the radio, and turn up NPR above the hum buzz of her machine.

I have no problem with that. She is often antisocial, and our few prior conversations about teaching, bilingualism, and sushi make me feel nearly, though not quite, privileged. She nears the couch-to suck up the  renegade tortilla chips and cookie bits left behind- where I am reading Virginia Woolf. I feel like some over privileged white women sitting on my rear, ignoring the help with an arrogant air.  Yet, this is not the truth. Scenes rush back with each push of the vacuum to and away from my curled-beneath-me feet. Suddenly, I am sitting in a dirty downtown apartment kitchen four years ago and Ashley’s mother is cooking me breakfast. ***

Picture it: Bachelorette Party. . . White Plains. . .  (Both white and plain. Discuss).

Six out of control, though not video-worthy, girls out on the town to celebrate sending my best friend into the veil of holy matrimony. Off to the bars after a huge dinner topped off with Godiva cheesecake and expensive drinks, as well as cheap beer-drinkin' in a hotel room where we complain about men, dish dirty sex stories, and put on enough mascara to cover the entire cast of Cabaret. Foshizzle.

In the bar/club, the first shots and beers go down with a lot of screaming. The tiaras sparkle, bras glow neon through sheer shirts under blacklights, feather boas float, and the boys gather around for their chance to see something, anything, happen. Free flashes, girl on girl action they learned about on the net, anything cliched. Charmingly pathetic. . . too easy.

Thus, it begins. . . (more later)