"meaningful song quote here..."


how's it goin' babe?

fortunately, we're too old for the draft. but not too old to get doused by some lunatic with a crop duster. so. they've read tom clancy novels and they've watched classic hitchcock films...

anyway. i've been working like... uh, randy smoot, i guess. day and night, there are no more weekends. i work friday and saturday night into the wee hours and then get up and work sunday. maybe a movie on sunday night.

in the meantime, i seem to have one client here (trying to dig herself out of a hole) or fave client (digging her way deep into the hole in my heart) 24/7. plus. day and night. fave client is fun.
ack! but i set myself up for ridicule. ne c'est pas? (o somethin' fwench) all i do is think about this woman. and all she does is ignore my lust-filled,
love-filled advances. pseudo-advances. she protects herself, and i back off as i advance. (no doubt an attractive position for a male. looking for an a(pe) type? not jim dean. more of an n(ice) type. and we all can quote leo durocher (even if we can't spell him).) there is so much of her in me. no. so much of me in her. i want to help. say, no. stop. don't fuck up. don't sabotage yourself on the brink of something great.

i'm on a cleansing diet with my acupuncturist. lost fifteen pounds so far. but i have neither hunger nor exhaustion. it's left my wee brain a little.. boggled. pure system. no exercise yet. that will come. all of this provoked by a backache FROM HELL. no, just a crippler. i can't remember if i wrote out the details last time. so much shit has happened. and yet, i am so in love that everything seems... jesus christ. my m.o. hasn't hanged since grammar school when i used to time it so i use th bathroom pass the same time Becky Rohr did. planning the casual encounter. knowing nothing about just coming out and saying "hey..." what? what" i was never taught the come-on lines. the hey, ;let's go fuck lines. in a bar environment, i am a fucking napkin. i'll help you clean up. fuck.

and when you drink wine on a purified system... ooo la la. the effect is so strong. cheapest bottle. i have no money. none... but... fifteen pounds. a bowling ball. i have removed a bowling ball from my body. a tumor of fat the weight of a bowling ball. and that yields me? well.. now i can fit into my XL tee shirts again. shrunk of course, by lots of washing and drying. but nonetheless... XL.

and a voice popped into my head the other day. maybe yesterday. i have no time sense anymore. christmas comes in december.. anyway. i thought to myself, shit, what does anythng matter? some motherfucker in a crop duster comes and sprays us all and what the use is a Bally's membership, or quitting smoking, or even being fucking polite to anyone? what the fuck does anything matter? spray me with the shit and get it over.
okay, terrorists, you fucking win. I'm scared. or paranoid. or worried. or soemthing. this isn't the jim dean of old. this isn't the... what... it's just a new excuse not to do anything. fuck. fu-uh-uck. three syllables of despair. i've recently fired a client, i've kind of told off an old friend (perhaps ner to hear from her again). cutting off relationships. but it's not like I'm closing in on the ones that count. i'm narrowing it down to me and my fucking computer. and maybe my camera. but that's it.
he said. over-dramatically.
one of my best friend's mother died a few days ago. he had to fly to florida/ he doesn't like flying in the first place. and here he was in the war zone, with his mother dying (as he flew).
a thought occurred to me. fave client referred to this site tonight. she suggested that I put up some pages on this site. which worries me. is she reading this part of the site as well? uck-fay e-may. i kind of doubt it. i don't think her interest and/or curiosity runs that deep,
tonight i rented a couple of classics. point break and speed, a keanu reeves film festival. in my house. of course, i don't even have time to watch them. my ex... i'm going to do the logo for my ex-wife and her writing partner. i agreed to it. because i am a whore. because i need the money.
and all i do is think [fave client]. shee-ite, muthafucka. scan, this, attorney general. obscenity. but only directed at myself. a god-given right. to trash one's self. what are the names of the two programs? something that scans e-mails, and another program that monitors phone calls. both will be put into place when ashcroft gets his way. but does he speak arabic? that's the big q. who's translating, baby? who is making the squiggles turn into our own letters.
i had a cup of coffee a few days ago. well into the cleansing diet. kept me up until seven in the morning. once the system is clean, all of the (legal) drugs work like a mofo.
and again. I think what if the woman of my dreams is reading this shit? close the book, close the door.
wasn't patriot games real? can't we satellie-ly scan the deserts and find the bad guys? and then erase them?

my daughter turns nineteen in a few days. again, away from home., but this time in a foreign country. her atm card has not arrived, and no one will cash a check for her. so she is broke. borrowing mula in Mexico. i'm sending her some cash for her birthday, and she tells me just to send something from her account. pity from my own kid. uck-fay.
i'm going to go down to guadalajara in mid-october to see her. hopefully, the flights will be about four or five dollars round trip.

a good friend just got married. on a whim. at least unexpectedly. (and erik asked me if I should pull the caveman routine, club fave client over the head and tkae her to vegas for a wedding). anyway. either sensing that the end of the world is near, or that the time is right (for some other reason) my friend got married. at leaast he knows the woman. twenty years. that's enough time to get to know a potential mate.

okay. it's late. gotta run. to the couch. watch sme classic "whoa, dude" movies. i used to despise keanu reeves. well, at least thought, how the hell can he get work. but I've changed my tune. the kids does little movies as well as the big pigs. he's given up big bucks so a film company can hire a good star for another role. his heart seems to be in the right place. and the matrix is still the fucking best movie around. fuck citizen kane. fuck casablance. matrix. i can not wait for parts two and three.
and all the while I write this, in the back of my mind is fave client. damn damn damn. obsession is a terrible thing. and yet there is so much of her that reminds me of a younger me. it's frustrating to want want to save yourself. and to know that you won't listen. and to watch yourself, or herslf, go down the path of self-destruction.
and i haven't been kissed since fucking january. or held. or anything resembling contact.
and i call this a life?
but on the positive side...

imagine this with a war going on.

doing a logo for the ex. such a whore i am...
what do you see? a performing seal? a cat's head?

or two heads colliding?

oh. favorite client... not only do we finish each other's thoughts. but... what? pea-brain... jesus, slipped away... uh... something she did that was so jim-dean like... crap. it's tough when the mind goes... drinking, writing, behaving... some action thing... shit... god damn, i love this woman. but she is soyoung. so lost. it really would be like pulling myself out of the room in poltergeist. no, not to make it seem small... what the fuck was I thinking before?
oh, well... i'll think of it later,
bonsoir, peeps.
time for keanu.

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