Thank God we’re over the past. It was an ugly time for anyone, but especially hard on us. There were times when it seemed you would never get here, but I knew you were stuck in time.
I know you think I was running from you, but really, who wouldn’t? You were so creepy with your insistence on everything now. Images of bad 90s workout videos to songs like Pump Up The Jam were a constant threat to my reality. Would anyone want to listen to that when Jane Fonda seemed so much better?
Everything looks better in Sepia. Even those bowl haircuts that boys used to have. Now they’re almost cute. Now that they aren’t around anymore. What is it that goes on now that will look better in the future? I know. I know. It doesn’t matter, it’s not happening. Future and past don’t exist.
But let me ask you one thing, before we figure it out. Did you ever say to someone “Live in the moment” only to laugh at yourself? Just for a minute. Disregarding the idea that you truly believe what you say, did the humor ever reach you, when you truly wished it wouldn’t?
Which moment, is what I want to know, did you decide you weren’t my future?
I enjoy what we’ve got going on right now and I’m not trying to give you grief. But please, let me know: if you want to go further, I can always take you back.
11:28pm: Hey, u up?
Thermometer 11:28pm: What’s that supposed to mean?
11:29pm: Just seeing whats up
Thermometer 11:30pm: Who is this?
11:30pm: I’m your #1 fan
Thermometer 11:31pm: Do you even know me?
11:31pm: I know ur hot
Thermometer 11:32pm: Stop texting me.
11:33pm: Ok- I’m serious now. Ur the 1 for me. I saw you at the CVS on 5th street, remember?
11:40pm: You were in the aisle all by yourself. I asked for your # and you gave it.
Thermometer 11:40pm: Fantastic?
11:40pm: u know it
Thermometer 11:41pm: That was two weeks ago.
11:41pm: I was working up the courage to text
Thermometer 11:41pm: Really? You seemed pretty cocky when you approached me out of nowhere.
11:42pm: It was a facade. I’m shy underneath
Thermometer 11:41: You don’t have anything underneath.
11:43pm: What are you saying?
Thermometer 11:52pm: You’re a carpet cleaner. Expiration date passed.
[Hi readers, I am trying to make a bit of money off my blog by trying Amazon’s Affiliate program. It might not work out – I’m not sure yet. Anyway, any advertisement I post, will be relevant to what I write. I respect my readership and your opinion.]
The Guide To Modern Dating:
I take my job seriously because people depend on it. I protect the email. I protect the user. I even protect information. I am the Spam Folder.
Every day I catch stray spam, trying to weasel its way into the computer. Save 20% off your next purchase when you try SalonPro Scalp Control! It stands at the edge of my decision, pleading its case as if it was something new.
“The scalps of innocent people may flake off entirely if they don’t take precaution now!” I’ve seen it all.
Filled almost to the brim, I have become invisible. Please, just empty the spam, I pray to the user every evening before rush hour. I don’t know how much more I can take before completely slowing down.
Happy Dating Love Available For Destiny!!!!
I capture it, wrestling with the idea of actual destiny. Maybe there is something to the email. Maybe even if it is junk mail, the opportunity for love will conquer. I think of my user, tapping on the keys for hours at a time. Even at night the laptop is on. If real love existed, the power of online wouldn’t consume so much.
Real, live, girls looking for marriage! Good food! Happy home! Happy heart!
No, this is not beneficial. I pluck the email from an undecided cloud and bury it behind Mattress Discount Blowout!! Act Now And Receive Clean Sheets!!!
I have room for only one more email. The account is slow and I feel as if I am swimming through a public streaming of the Academy Awards.
Are you addicted to the internet?
It comes at me during a suspicious time: the small hours. Once 3AM hits, foreign spammers swarm with offers of everything from anti-aging miracles to fashion modeling careers. This goes against the script.
Do you spend more than 4 hours a day online?
I know for a fact that social media takes up at least a few hours of time per day. Once down the search engine rabbit hole, the spam accumulates to maximum capacity.
Do you feel less comfortable than you used to when socializing face to face?
This service, whatever it is, could truly benefit those from a certain generation.
Call now to set up your initial consultation at 1-900-293-2726. Please disclose your name, email address, cell number, and any social media account profiles that are active and we will get back to you within 2 business days.
The need for information seems inappropriate. Social media accounts are of no use to anyone except marketers. But perhaps this company will ultimately help detangle the addiction of online exposure. Not to mention, the email account could truly be destroyed if information isn’t handled properly. By letting the advertisement through, I could be preventing much larger problems in the future.
Do the right thing for real connections.
The email address contains a name. John McCall. There is a business account attached to the address. It’s probably a registered company. It’s probably legit.
There once lived a space heater with little warmth. Every winter, when the office was frozen as an icicle, he was placed on the floor next to a pair of high heels. With the thermostat knob switched all the way to the right and the power turned on high, he shook with the struggle to heat.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” The high heels tapped impatiently.
The space heater tried harder. With heaving breaths from deep inside the mechanics of his being, he blew as deeply as he could.
“It’s like you don’t even want to be of use.” The high heels stomped.
The space heater coughed and sputtered. Its feelings were on fire.
“Are you going to break down now?” The high heels clicked. “Not that it would make much of a difference.”
The space heater glared at the rubber sole next to him. It wasn’t even soft. It would never be comfortable. He heaved his breath once again.
“It’s almost like you’re blowing cold air. Like an air conditioner.” The heels remarked.
Sparks flew from inside the space heater. Tiny flickers of orange and white stars burst from the fan to the floor.
The heels stared silently in astonishment.
Electrical shocks of steaming energy scattered across the power cord. Flames were now threatening the carpet.
“What is wrong with you?!” The high heels said again. “You’re going to burn down the office!”
The space heater noticed a patch of leather oozing off the edge of a shoe. The smell was like plastic with a worn sense of age and instantly the space heater shut down. He shuddered. He melted. With one last glance at the double polished pair, the space heater finally recoiled.
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Age: Expiration date optional
Body Type: Curvy
Someone who is mysterious and probably misunderstood. Substance use is acceptable as long as it’s for healing purposes only.
My Ideal Date:
Watching old VHS tapes of Tom Waits and comparing it to your band.
Three Things I Can’t Live Without:
1.)The joy of helping others
3.)The back shelf of your pantry
I’m at a point in my life where I know what works. I have faith in myself.
One thing I am exceptionally good at:
Decreasing a tense situation.
Complicated by Avril Lavigne
“Be My Headache.”
There comes a time in everyone’s life where the past seems better than the present. You get old, you get tired, you don’t feel like driving twenty minutes to work every single day and you start to think, remember that time when I was seventeen?
No. You don’t remember that time when you were seventeen. You don’t remember when your best friend’s mom screamed at you for feeding her son pot out of a hollowed out apple. You don’t remember how your stomach bulged out of the neon green spandex that you had to buy because Stacy Q. was beyond amazing. You don’t remember the first time you went to a night club and danced until you accidentally elbowed the shy guy in the eye.
You remember Sublime. You remember sitting stretched out in the back of your friend’s 1980’s Honda Accord while you dangled your arm out the window. You remember the rainbow-colored beanie that you could have sworn were the colors of the Jamaican flag. You remember that guy with the dreads who said you didn’t ever need to shampoo again just as long as you had Bees Wax. You remember thinking you could keep riding in that car forever.
But thank God, you got out. You no longer had to stay on your mom’s couch eating pizza Pringles and watching reruns of bad sitcoms. You made it past abstinence-only education, dodgeball, and pregnant cheerleaders.
Now you just have to change the CD.
It was never Sublime. It will never have been Sublime. It’s been over 20 years and you hate pop reggae.
It’s hard to always sparkle. The constant gleaming reflection gets old. Who are those people who stare at me with the greedy eyes? As if stares were rich and darkness was poverty, I pretend I’m worth more than their pockets.
A man came up to me last week, trying to put me in a box. I would make his wife so happy. She would gasp, lovingly gazing into his eyes, and melt like the gold I am not.
“Only $6.00,” said the girl with platinum highlights. “Your lucky day!”
The men always pause, as if genuinely deciding, before moving on to another glass case. Another section of the store. Another store all together.
But I always sparkle for the girls. They point, specifically to my beauty, and slide me against their wrist. Hand in hand we decide in unison all the places we’ll dazzle together.
“Only $6.00,” the girl behind the counter doesn’t have to tell them they’re lucky. They pay with their last crumpled bill.
CONFESSION INTERVIEW DICTATION
“What made you decide to do it?”
“Why would I kill Garfield?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve been happily serving him since 1978.”
“So you do consider it serving.”
“What do you mean?”
“You consider yourself beneath him.”
“So you find that demeaning, do you?”
“It’s my place.”
“To sit. On the floor. With the water.”
“So you’re blaming the water.”
“The water didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Then you admit it.”
“You poisoned Garfield.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You knew he’d eat the lasagna. That’s why you presented it to him last Tuesday evening. So you could kill him before Wednesday.”
“What happened Wednesday?”
“Wednesday was your ticket out. You knew you’d never be able to leave the Arbuckle house if Garfield was still around.”
“I could leave whenever I wanted.”
“He’d be all over you. Guarding you the entire day. You think he’d let you out of his sight even for one minute?”
“If the timing was right.”
“When would be the right time to leave?
“I never thought about it.”
“But if you did…”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Wednesday?”
“Why would I want to leave Wednesday?”
“Wednesday was different.”
“Because of the lasagna?”
“Because of your possible new future in a better home with a better cat in a better section of the kitchen.”
“You know I’m right. Just say it.”
“Say what happened on Wednesday.”
“I wanted to leave Garfield.”
“But why Wednesday?
“Wednesday was the day that Normal was coming.”
“And you wanted a Normal life, didn’t you?”
“A life without neediness.”
“A life without possession.”
“A life without Garfield.”
Where would the dreams go if time did not exist?
No clocks. No metronomes. No music to sing along to.
Roads across valleys turn sideways to look forward. Like backward:
Neither contemplates direction.
If dreams sputtered early and were caught before death, would we save them to prove they were here?
Into the net made of miniature holes, they’d fall out. And push through.
Earth rolling flat below them.