Beat Up Insafemode The Bruce Campbell Way

Tuesday night, I was assaulted by Bruce Campbell. It was past seven PM on an already trying day that had included work, a bus accident (the narcoleptic MBTA employee driving the bus I was on crashed into a stopped car at a traffic light), and stops at every house in the Boston area I have ever lived in (with the exception of the one I shared with Melissa Plummer). I was scheduled to meet Zuzu and Lot at 6:00 in Coolidge Corner. Due to the bus accident, I was running about a half hour late. Naturally, I was there about an hour before Zuzu and Lot.

The first thing I see at the theater is a sign that reads "All Bruce Campbell events are SOLD OUT." Bugger. I do a shakedown of the line, asking strangers for extra tickets. I get two. There are three of us.

When Zuzu and Lot show up, I run out of the standby line to give them my tickets, thus losing both tickets and line space. I will never make it in. Luckily, the ticket guy feels pity for the fact that I had worked my ass off for two tickets, and then gave them away, so he lets me in.

I am standing at the end of the aisle, trying to find Zuzu and Lot in the theater when someone knocks on my back like they're being chased by coyotes, and my back is the door of their insomniac savior. I turn around.

Bruce Campbell: Hi.
Me: Uh. Hey.
Bruce Campbell:You're in my way.
Me: Yes.
Bruce Campbell looks at me inquisitively.
Me:I should get out of your way.
Bruce Campbell: Yes. Yes you should.
Me: I'm going to sit down.
Bruce Campbell (laughing) : Ok, then. Good.

I sit down in the only empty seat in sight. Bruce shoots me one more look, snickers, and trots down the rest of the aisle to thunderous applause. He announces that instead of reading from his new book Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way, he is going to do a question and answer session for an hour, then start signing books. A woman to my left says really loudly in a thick indistinguishable Eastern Europeanesque accent "I am not shy. Is a book. Is down. Where?"

Bruce either doesn't hear her or chooses not to reply. Instead he calls on a random lady in the audience. Zuzu. She asks something about Sam Raimi. He answers it, then says something incredibly flirtatious to her.

"I am not shy. Is movie theater." Incoherent mumbling.

Bruce calls on some geeky guy.

Crazy Lady screams "I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Russian mafia."

Bruce says "I don't think I called on you, but since you won't stop talking, what is your question?"

"I am from Latvia. I am not shy." Something Something "Upset."

"I don't know what you're saying."

"I am not shy." Rikki-Tikki-Tembo-No-Sorembo-Cherry-Berry-Bucci-Pip-Berry-Pembo "Kill me."

"Yea. Look Latvia. I don't know what you're saying. Why don't you ask your question to someone around you, and I'll call on them to translate."

"I am not shy." Blah Blah Super Soaker "Why won't you answer my question?"

"Because I don't know what it is. Who's next?"

For the next twenty minutes or so, Latvia tries several times to ask her incoherent question, despite the fact that she is never called on.

"You've gotten a hero's welcome here in Boston." Some sixteen year old in a black shirt says. "Is there anywhere you've ever been where you've felt like the local people didn't like you?"

"Yea." Bruce says. "I hear they hate me in Latvia."

"I am not shy. People who use bad languages are not bridges."

I wonder what the bad languages are. Icelandic? Swahili? Elbonian?

"Could someone," Bruce asks, "preferably four large someones escort Miss Latvia out of theater?"

He then goes on to an interesting story about how, through his chain of logic, he's going to be playing Spider Man in Spider Man 3. I'm listening so intently to it that I don't see who it is that removes Latvia's Least Wanted.

After the session is over, Zuzu, Lot, and I head to the bookstore to buy a copy of his book. Latvia is at the counter. "I will not but this book." She says, waving around a copy of If Chins Could Kill. "He is trying to kill me. Always he follows me to the grocery store. Is Russian agent. He thinks I don't see him, but he is not bridge."

The lady behind the counter nods the service industry "you're a nutbag, but I'm stuck behind this counter and must talk to you" nod.

"Not bridge! Not bridge!"

Five minutes later, she leaves.

I purchase a blank book to use for a One-Off. While I'm at the counter, I compliment the lady on how well she handled The Latvian.

"Oh, it's nothing." She says. "Last week Mitt Romney was trying to kill her. The week before that it was Tony the Tiger. She's a popular mark for assassins and members of the Russian mafia."

The only thing I tried to shoot her with was a nasty look.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/122297.html

Peer Pressure

Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to fuck a guy, you really have to pee first. It's important in these situations that you put your bladder's interests before your testicles, even if it means an extra minute and a half of not yet fucking. I know this, but I am drunk, and Eric looks so cute in his boxer briefs. Surely I can wait a few minutes an hour or two.

This is the first guy in months I've been close to doing anything with. I haven't seen My Future Fry Cook in ages, I don't feel like meeting new people, and I feel like MAMIP is on another planet, even when we're sitting next to each other at the bar. So how can I waste precious naked time peeing?

"I'm sooooo hot." He says. He's not being arrogant or narcissistic. Yes, he is good looking, but I'm fairly sure he means, it's eighty fucken degrees. I turn on the air conditioner. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh."

I slide next to him on the bed. This is no small feat. My bed is the size of a pencil case. Eric and I are Sharpies. If we end up fucking, there's going to have to be floor involved.

I hate this house. I hate Landlord. I hate that my room is the size of a Pistachio shell. I hate that my room smells like smoke. I hate this place so much that, in the six months I've lived here, only Celeste, Goth Girl, and Dmitri have ever seen the inside of it. Until tonight, the closest I've come to having sex is hearing my cute straight roommate moaning a little too loudly in the other room. But tonight I say fuck this house, and fuck Eric, too, but for entirely different reasons.

I liked Eric immediately when we met. I don't remember where that was, or why I liked him, but when I found his phone number on a post-it note in my drawer of doom I immediately thought "Oh cool, it's my friend Eric, the poet, I should call him." Only, when Eric picked up the phone I realized Eric wasn't my friend Eric at all but an entirely different Eric.

"Hey, Safey. I didn't think you were going to call me again. How are you?"

"Well, I, uh, lost your number for a while. Sorry."

I now like Eric because he doesn't small talk, he doesn't care that I have no idea who he is, and he's lying almost naked on my bed. Right. Stop the extemporaneous narration, nearly naked guy next to me on bed.

I am not nearly naked, and that needs to be fixed. The problem is, I am a freeballer, so there's no nearly naked me unless I add boxers after I subtract pants. I should go downstairs, pee, change into my boxers and come back upstairs.

"I'm thirsty." Eric says.

I go downstairs to get juice, change into my boxers, and pee. Unfortunately, someone is in the shower when I get downstairs. I get the juice, drop trou in the kitchen, pick up different trou in the kitchen, and run back upstairs, leaving my jeans in the laundry room. We each down some juice, and start making out.

I've never understood the term making out. What is out, and what exactly are the ingredients that go into making it? Sure, saliva, tongues, lips, but those are the ingredients in kissing too. When does kissing become making out?

I think the shower stops, I should really go downstairs and pee, but my dick takes it upon itself to pop pout of my boxers and say hello to our new friend, Eric. Eric politely kisses him hello, and I am reminded of a great haiku by Joel Derfner:

Remember when I
said I disliked oral sex?
I meant just with you.

Eric is pretty good with his tongue. No Tommy, but adequate. I'm starting to really get into his rhythm when he stops, looks up at me and laughs. His laugh. Imagine a pig gets his hoof caught in a ceiling fan and spraining its (do pigs have ankles?) ankle. You put a cast on it, but whenever it steps on that ankle it makes that little squealing pig noise. This is Eric's laugh.

I want to ask him what's so funny, but I start laughing at his laughing, and he leans up to kiss me, and somehow the condom is on my dick and so is Eric's ass, and I no longer care what was so funny. I can only think "Yes" "Wow" "Dear Lord" and "I swear I've never met this guy before in my life, how did his phone number get into my drawer of doom? God I really have to clean that drawer out soon. I'm moving out in two weeks and I should really get a move on and, hey aren't I having sex right now? Yes, right there."

Andrew, I mean Eric, Whatever His Name Is is bouncing on me like I'm a Spider Man Hop Ball, and the pressure on my balls as he bounces is almost perfectly balanced with the pressure on my kidneys from the liter and a half of Cherry Coke I drank earlier combined with the juice we chugged pre-fuck. I envision my ejaculation blasting him across the room, followed immediately by a tidal wave of urine filling my Barbie Dream House sized room. This is the unsexiest thought ever, and while I hate to waste a condom "I'll be right back, I really have to pee."

Ha, Moment. I have not only killed you, I've chopped you into tiny pieces, and now I am on my way downstairs to piss on your grave.

When I get back upstairs Eric is asleep.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/121749.html

Tragic

The most boring date in the world would have to take place in a museum. It's a Saturday afternoon, and a singer and an author, each with a penchant for witty one liners, are too tired to come up with anything funnier than a yawn. Due to a diabolical scheme by the MBTA to throw off their chemistry, they both arrive late. Author arrives first, sits on the steps of the Museum of Fine Arts, and writes fanmail to a person he doesn't respect. When Singer shows up, full of sunshine and apologies, Author smiles, and the two head into the lobby.

There are more Greek Gods and heroes on the ceiling than Author could fall in love with in a week. Singer knows them all by name, and what errands they've run. He mentions he's an art snob, and when Author mentions something about not remembering which face goes with which psychological disorder, Singer says only "Tragic."

Tragic is the word of the day. The haircut of a passing off-white trash boy is tragic, as is his outfit. Author's inability to tell Picasso from...someone who clearly isn't Picasso is tragic. The lack of one liners during the date is tragic, as are certain works by William Shakespeare. When enough hours pass, that the only thing either guy can say of an entire hallway of paintings is "flowers," the date has turned tragic, and it's time to go home. First, they spend some quality time on one of the hard benches trying to be catty about the passing tourists, but only managing to sound like Lemurs: docile, vegetarian, and endangered.

The day grows more tragic by the moment.

On his way to the date, Author is accosted by a solatic, a crazy person who's affected by the sun. This is the first day of sun in over and a week, and this particular crazy lady has decided to take some public transportation, armed with some red, white, and blue flowers, and her mole. Author is sitting innocently on a bench, one of the few things he can manage to do innocently. He has his headphones on, and is writing a love note to someone he doesn't even like. As his pen spits out the phrase "penguin lust", solatic places a blue carnation on Author's book. He looks up at her.

"This is for you." She says.

He smiles, and says thank you.

"I just ask for a small donation to The Memorial Day Fund."

While this pisses Author off, he pulls his small wad of cash out of his pocket, and separates two ones from the pile to give her. She seizes his ten dollar bill, and says "This will do."

He does not let go of the ten. Yanks it out of her hand, and stuffs it deep down in his pocket.

"Please sir. Think of the children. This is the time of year when they need remembrance, and gifts, and some of these kids don't get presents or stuffing or turkey. Orphans, sir. Ten dollars will get them meals for a week, and aren't the children worth just ten dollars?"

Author wants to smack the mole off her face. Memorial day is about remembering soldiers, and while most of them are too young to be fighting battles for the Republican Chickenhawks with yellow ribbons where their brains should be, none of them are actually children. And gifts, stuffing, and turkey, are from an entirely different holiday. If there's a food associated with Memorial Day, it's grilled hot dogs, or hamburgers. Author would tell this all to her, if he weren't afraid it would encourage her to keep pestering him.

"What's wrong with your face?" Solatic asks. "It's so ugly."

Here he is, on his way to the first date in three years that didn't call for lube, condoms, and pseudonyms, and some crazy bitch has Author worried that his face is covered in zits, shaving cream, blood, or postage stamps. With no impending mirrors between bench and date, he decides to interpret her comment as "You look mad now, and I want to fuck with you because I'm insane." This satisfies him. Almost.

He sees her again on his way home. He thinks of some things to say to her, and some things to throw at her, should she reapproach. She, wisely, does not.

He spends the next day trying to get out of third person. Author is such a pretentious name. He I make plans to go to a poetry slam, which can only be nearly as boring as a museum. It is. The highlight of the night is a talented, drunk girl who has written a poem in response to my poem about bad poems. Eventually, all poetry will be about poems about other poems. The art form is on life support, and someone keeps kicking at the plug. After I've won the slam, the world's hottest slam singer gives his hottest performance in a couple of years. I'm starting to get drunk because Already Drunk Girl is buying me whiskey drinks. I'm not going to catch up with her, though. She's won $50 in Sacajawea coins, and has already spent most of that on whiskey and beer. She writes a love note, folds it into a paper airplane, and floats it to the stage. It hits a bewildered spectator who opens it up, reads it, and then gapes at me, as though I were hitting on him. He doesn't believe me when I point to Drunk Girl, and during the break starts a conversation about the guys he'd fuck. "I'd fuck Antoine." He says. "But only for the story. It's like Justin Timberlake. Fucking him would lead to me getting to fuck girls. Of course, I'd have to wear gloves, and a raincoat, cause that poet is a grimy little fucker."

I wouldn't fuck Antoine with a dildo and a radiation suit.

"You, I'd fuck." He says. "But I know you're a top, and I'm not into that."

Of course he's not. The only people into me are drunk girls and underage boys.

I duck out of the reading before the hack who is currently going by "His Holiness, The Righteous and Powerful Van Tyll of Boston" can maim the mic. I am greeted by another passive aggressive note on my door. I'm $1.50 behind on the rent. One dollar and fifty cents. A buck and a half. I leave a stack of pennies, dimes, and nickels in front of Landlord's door.

There are three messages in my voice mail. One Mom, one female, and one male asking for a favor that doesn't include the prefix "sexual". Tragic.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/120783.html

The Real Catty World (Part 9: Moving Out)

As of July 1st, I will officially be moving ou of The Catty Real World. I really like Dr. O, and Evangelical seems like a really nice guy, but once again I came back home early from a trip out of town to find someone other than me in my room, and that's not fucken cool whether FOOD is included in the rent or not. He also left me a note that my room smells like smoke. It does. I, however, don't smoke, so he probably had one of his young Asian friends set up in my room while I was gone, and said person smoked in my fucken room. Hate hate hate. Hate hate hate. But what do you expect from a 62 year old fag who spends all his money seducing young Asian boys with no self-esteem over The Internet. "I hear what you're saying, and I do love you (fill in name of the week here) but Malaysia is so far away. If I can go there and be with you, I will, but if I can't I have to move on. No. No, I love you. Of course I love you, you're very special to me. But I need space." And apparently The Pacific Ocean isn't space enough.

I woke up to a note telling me that Landlord and I "need to talk", meaning, he finally found someone willing to pay more rent for my room, than I'm willing to. He lowered the rent for me because nobody wants the tiny little room that I'm currently inhabiting. But, not being in the mood to talk with him, I just left a note that said "July 1st, I'll be moving out."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/120526.html

The Real Catty World (Part 8: Missing Hard Wood)

The phone is knocking on my bedroom door, upset that I've turned the ringer off. It passes me a note: "Hi. I am an Ellen Jamesian..." I crumple it up without reading the rest of it, and go back to sleep.

The phone is tickling my feet with its semi-erect antenna. I crack my knees, and curl into the fetal position.

"Can't you hear the phone ringing?" Landlord asks. It's not yet eleven o'clock, but I am passed out and what the fuck is Landlord doing in my room while I'm sleeping. "The phone is for you."

"I am asleep." I tell him.

"Are you going to get the phone?"

"It's not ringing."

While the phone was napping, I tore out its vocal chords.

"It's for you." He is a Mynah Bird.

"Fine. I'll answer it." I say, sitting up, the quilt shielding my naked body from the Landlord's vagabond eyes. "Ok." I say. "I'll get it."

He is a rabbit in headlights. Swaying with the cobra, but my cobra is hidden under the quilt.

"You can go now."

"Aren't you going to get it?" He asks, licking his lips.

"Yea. Thanks. Could you please get out of my room?"

X-Ray Tech moved out in March because Landlord has no sense of privacy. I've done my best to explain my boundaries: If you need to come into the room, knock. If no one answers, stay out. If I say "Come in," come in. If I don't, don't.

"It's just that the phone kept ringing and no one was answering it. It's for you."

"Yes." I say. "I get it. Phone for me. Please get out of my room so I can answer the phone."

The week Dr. O moved in, Landlord had scheduled his annual carpet cleaning but neglected to tell any of us until 5:30 that morning. I was still asleep when he knocked on my door, and, according to Dr. O, said "Carpet Cleaners are coming today."

My room was sorted piles of laundry, unstapled chapbook pages, two decks of playing cards arranged by numbers.

"Why didn't you clean your room?" He asked when I got home from work. "The carpet cleaner couldn't clean the carpet in there."

"Carpet cleaner?" I asked.

"I told you this morning that the carpet cleaners were coming and you responded." He said, leaning into me like an elderly queen making a point.

"I responded?" I asked.

"Yea." Dr. O said. "I think you said 'It's five o'clock in the fucken morning, what do you want?'."

Landlord squints at her. "Oh. Well, I didn't hear what he said, just that he responded."

I understand this. I don't care what you say, just say it. Whisper your confession, scream your dissatisfaction, murmur a non-sequitur, just fucken talk.

I don't deal well with silence. But these days, I'm dealing it face down, fifty-two card pick up style. And whether it's the two of hearts or the queen of spades, all silence looks the same from the back of the deck.

I've got to go. The phone isn't ringing.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/117765.html

Slow Flashes (Part 17: I Am The Only One In My Circle Of Friends Not Moving On)

It's been 2:18 for over a month now. I get up at 2:18. I sleep at 2:18. Life at Zuzu's is consistently 2:18.

The last time it was 2:17 was when Renee Francois, a French student (quel suprise), moved in. Renee has the peculiar habit of launching into showtunes during the midst of conversation:

"Hey, Francois, how's the new job?"

"It's good for my brain...I could while away the hours, consulting with the flowers..."

It's cute until you're trapped in a car with him for ten minutes.

"Is he gay?" Zuzu asked me.

"Either that or he's French."

It was still 2:18 when he moved out last weekend. One of his friends, a very Elvis Costelloish nerd, came over to help him move.

"Stop oogling my tenant's friends." Zuzu said.

"I'm not oogling." I said. "I've never oogled anyone in my life. I'm ogling. Check out his ass." And for once, I wasn't calling attention to my favorite boy part because of its shape, but because of what was in the back left pocket: a red bandanna.

"What does it mean?" She asked. I made a fist with my right hand, a small hole with my left, and then punched the right hand through it. We tried not to giggle everytime Costello walked down the stairs. "It could just be something else." Zuzu said, but the next time I saw Francois walk down the stairs I noticed the red bandanna in his right pocket. I had to go out back and laugh into my fist until the look of my fist grossed me out, which caused me to laugh even harder, then I was thinking the word "harder", and I was a snort away from hiccuping.

Shortly after Francois moved out, Zuzu adopted Pup Ratzinger, an impossibly cute (not miniature, thank God) dachshund who only barks when barked at, and has a nearly insurmountable fear of stairs. For some reason he reminds me of Dmitri.

Last night, while Zuzu was training Ratzinger, Landlord, Doctor O, Straight Roommate and I went out to a French Bistro to wish bon voyage to Straight Roommate, who will soon be replaced by an Evangelical Christian. I couldn't imagine why Landlord was inviting an Evangelical to live with us until I saw a picture of our future roommate. He's a Chinese guy in his early twenties. Landlord would invite Reverend Phelps to live with us if he looked remotely Asian. "Don't prejudge him because he's Christian." Landlord said when I rolled my eyes at his the picture he's brought with him.

"It's not that." I said. "Look at the banner he's standing under: Crusade for College Christianity? Crusade? No one in their right mind would combine the word Christian and Crusade these days unless they were trying to evoke negativity or violence. Why not just call it 'Kill a Campus Muslim for Jesus'?"

We argued semantics for a few minutes until the hot, obviously straight, Asian waiter took our order. I don't like American French Food. Pate disgusts me, and if I'm paying twenty dollars for an appetizer, it better suck my cock before I eat it.

Dr. O and I split an order of escargot in garlic butter that was amazing. Then, I had some lobster bisque. For $8 I got two tiny pieces of lobster in about an ounce of bisque. Next time, I pick the restaurant.

This whole week has been a series of papercuts with elaborate bandaids. No working computer means I spend more time Chez Zuzu, overindulging on homemade food and watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force with her son, Lot. Put some ice on it. Because yet another coworker was late, and I spilled coffee on myself, I had to skip a night out with a cute non-poetry-slam bisexual and his friends. Instead, I spent hours on the phone talking with cute friends in Iceland and California. Kiss it and make it better. I still haven't made it to the post office, and I have a ton of shit to send, so I go home and eat a half dozen macaroons I bought at the French restaurant. Bathe me in Bactine. Fuck papercuts, all of my problems are two tiny pieces of lobster in an ounce of bisque. People would kill for my problems.

Except Tuesday night.

Tuesday night was a six pound order of escargot sauteed in battery acid. Tuesday night was Reverand Phelps with automatic weapons. Instead of a papercut, Tuesday night was a guillotine. For the eleventh time in one day, I'd identified someone as the cutest person in the world. I watched him watch me watch him for ten minutes before he came to the counter to order some "Mode?"

No one has called me Mode since I was a camp counselor over ten years ago. "Grant?" I can't believe I was checking out one of my former kids, why he must only be...25...ok, I can believe it. I just forget that the "kids" I counseled were only three years younger than me. The chasm between 14 and 17 seems immense, but 25 and 28? Who cares?

I walked around the counter and hugged him. An act that would shock most of my friends who seem to think I wrap myself in barbed wire to keep people from touching me. "How've you been?"

"Better." He said. "I've been much better than today. My mom's here." He waved in the general direction of the hospital. "Breast cancer."

"I'm so sorry." I said.

"Oh, it's no big deal. It's just that this is the first time I've been back to Mass since the Bernard thing."

"Bernard thing?" I asked.

He gave me the Velociraptor Look. "You don't know? Oh my God, it must have been after you left. Do you want to go out for a drink after work? I'm buying."

I don't remember the last time I said no to that question.

For the next hour, I flashed through disjointed memories about my days as a camp counselor at Camp Davis. Nothing emotional, just a series of snapshots of people I'd forgotten. Bernard. Bernard was my nemesis. When I was an eleven year old camper, Bernard was a twenty year old counselor. He taught archery. All the cool boys got special permission to spend time with Bernard at the range, while the rest of us suffered through gymnastics or horseback. I was not cool, so I hated Bernard. The first year I was a counselor, Bernard was unemployed due to his mistakenly thinking he was more valuable to the camp then he was, so I got to work on the archery range with his assistant. Sure, the cool boys spent a lot of time hanging out with me, but so did the uncoordinated girls, the boys with lisps, and even the girls who smelled like their fathers' insecurities. When Bernard returned the next year, I was banished from archery, forced to teach swimming to the kids not cool enough for bows and arrows. At after work parties, Bernard shunned me, and spread the rumor that I was a fag. I wanted to shatter his smile into arrowheads.

Oddly enough, it was Bernard who offered the peace pipe. I was dragging a cooler down to a beach with a group of Irish friends when Bernard drove by in his black Jeep and blew the horn at me. "Hey Mode, I'm having a party at my house tonight. If you and your friends want to stop by, that'd be cool. Just bring some beer."

So a sixpack of Zima and a sunburn later, my friends and I were sitting on Bernard's porch, listening to the Black Crowes and mingling with some of my other coworkers. The night was fireworks with no calendric meaning. I stumbled into the kitchen for another Zima when Bernard grabbed me by the hair and said "Take your faggy ass friends and get the fuck out of my house."

The people around us supplied the "What the fuck?" for me.

"You come into my house, trash my living room, drink my beer, and..."

"What are you talking about?" his girlfriend of the week asked. "The living room is fine, and he brought the beer, remember?"

I ran out of the house before he could respond. I stopped on the porch and looked at my friends. "We have to leave. Now."

From that day forward, we spoke in scowls and glares. Then I grew up, took a real job and forgot all about him.

"He molested us." Grant said after out third shots of tequila.

"Fuck." Was the only thing to say.

"Didn't you ever wonder why it was only the cute boys? Why he called everyone he hated 'fag'?"

I hadn't. Then again, I'd been a naive 18 year old when I'd left.

"He made me hate myself for years. Then I found out he'd started messing around with my little brother and..." He took another shot. "It had to stop."

My tongue was granite, my eyes seized.

"There were so many of us...Jared ended up in jail for some hate crime thing. Brad still won't talk about it with anyone. And Ryan ended up killing himself."

No.

No.

Must not break shot glass in fist. Must not shake Grant until he sucks his story out of my brain to some place safer. Must not drive back east, find whatever cell Bernard is currently occupying and rip his balls out via his ear canal.

"Fucked up, huh?"

I heard nothing else until goodbye. A brief hug.

I gave him my phone number and told him to call me if he needed to blow off steam. I've spent enough time in hospitals this past year staring at white walls to know the loneliness of fluorescent lights.

"Sure." He said. "I'll probably come down and get coffee from you tomorrow. Mom might come with me. She'd shit if she knew you were here. You were one of her favorite counselors."

"That'd be great." I said.

I didn't see either of them on Wednesday. Thursday was my day off. Yesterday I took long breaks, and spent most of my non-break time reorganizing shelves. I'm staying at Zuzu's to avoid the temptation to answer the phone at my house. When I close my eyes I see a slideshow of kids with question mark eyes and closed mouths. I wish I'd been smart enough or strong enough to help them back then. Today, I'm thankful I'm out of earshot.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/116423.html

A Brief Conversation With God

God has Cancer. God is HIV Positive. God spent most of last Thursday night in Church looking for answers, but all he got were more questions. Now he knows why I haven't been inside a Church for years, unless I'm in the basement stuffing non-religious books into non-religious envelopes.

"I'm sorry." God says. "I don't mean to bother you, but..." and he begins weeping again. It's a quiet series of not quite sobs. It is to crying what hiccups are to breathing fire.

I take my headphones off, so I can hear him better should he resume speaking. I am sure he will resume speaking. He's God.

"I'm sorry. I'll be right back." And God gets up to collect himself.

Maybe I'm still dizzy. Maybe this isn't God at all, but some homeless weirdo who will hit me up for money just before "our" bus shows up. I dip my head back into Running with Scissors for less than a minute when I hear, "I got you something to drink." And there is God again, and he hands me a Cherry Coke. Homeless, maybe. Definitely God.

"I was in Vietnam." he says. I know this, because according to most spiritual people, and many sensible religions, God is everywhere. This is how he can both be in the White House advising our noble Resident, George W. Bush on how to get rid of Social Security and queers at the very same time he can be sitting next to me almost sort of crying. "I died over there. But they brought me back. I didn't want to come back."

So God is Buffy Sommers after Buffy The Vampire Slayer was moved from the WB to UPN. I can almost hear him singing "I was in Heaven.....Heaven." But, you know, he's God, and some people believe there is God in everyone, so of course there's a little bit of God in Sarah Michelle Gellar. I try to imagine Xander, Willow, and Dawn standing around a grave, and this short, unshaven, vaguely ethnic looking person climbing out of the grave and handing them each a Cherry Coke. I am so deep in this vision, that I miss something about drugs and death.

"I've never done anything bad." He says. "Anything. I'm always good, but everything is just so hard." And only God could ever look me in the face and claim "I've never done anything bad." It's the whole infallibility thing.

I want to say something comforting about the possibilities of The Afterlife or Reincarnation, but I figure, he's just spent the whole day in a Church being harassed by religious people, he's probably heard all the crap people pull out of their Holy Schwag Bags. So I mumble something about "I'm sure there's some sort of plan."

And he just stares at me.

I look hopefully in the direction the bus should be coming for. I want to pray for it, but I don't think, given the situation, that it would do me much good. The bus will come when it comes.

"I go to Churches every day. Every day. And everyone listens to me like I'm important. But then they leave, and I'm so alone. And nothing is better."

I take a really long sip of Cherry Coke to keep from saying anything.

"I'm a regular guy." He says. And then, "Here's our bus." And here it is.

On the bus, I sit near the front, leaving an empty seat next to me, but hoping he won't sit in it. He doesn't. He puts on his headphone. God is listening to Eminem's "Lose Yourself". I put my own headphones on.

Back at the house, Dr. O. and Landlord are discussing putting a party together for our departing roommate. "McDonald's?" Landlord offers. I pray he's joking, and then he laughs. God is so close, he has no choice but to listen. It's like I'm in his head.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/115561.html

Motion Sick

Where is my "Future Fry Cook"? It's 10:30 in the morning, and I have no one but Augusten Burroughs and a creepy looking woman with a banana peel sticking out of her shoe for company. I have Audioslave's "I Am The Highway" on repeat in my discman. I am about halfway through rereading Running With Scissors, and I'm getting really into it when the bus begins to lurch. My eyes shake. A piece of the hot dog omelet I had for brunch makes a mad dash for the outside world, but after a frightening two seconds seeing the light of day through my trachea, it returns to my stomach. For only the second time in my life, I'm motion sick, and have to put the book down.

The first time I was motion sick, I was sailing from Jacksonville, Florida to Portland, Maine with my dingleberry grandfather and his douchebag son (my uncle, not my Dad). I had a pleasant/smooth sail all the way up to my home on the Cape, but while we were docked in the Cape Cod Canal, I made the unfortunate decision to eat a large bowl of lobster bisque before we set sail in the midst of a really bad storm. That happened when I was twelve. In the intervening sixteen years, I haven't been anywhere close to motion sickness.

Before the boating trip, I was only vaguely aware of what motion sickness was. Kevin, the friend who my parents had basically adopted, was motionsick pretty much constantly. Even a brisk walk made him dizzy. When we were thirteen, my parents took us white water rafting in Maine, and during the car trip up there, we had to stop four times to let Kevin puke. And we were bringing him white water rafting.

The lurching bus brings me my first thought of Kevin in over a year. I'm thinking of writing down a few memories of him when the bus lurches again. No writing for Safey. I am so focused on not being sick that I miss my bus stop, causing me to spend three minutes longer on the bus, as it lurches through a stoplight. I hate lurching. If Ted Cassidy were still alive, I would cockslap him in the eye.

When I finally make it off the bus, I am an octopus on rollerblades, a one legged turtle surfing on an armadillo's back. Luckily, I work near a hospital, so if I do fall and get a concussion, a hot doctor is only a few steps away.

I do not fall and get a concussion.

Still, my head hurts. All the customers are either whispering or screaming. One manages to do both simultaneously. I am trying to figure out what the Lithuanian woman who speaks no English would like in her coffee, when the phone rings. "Safey? It's Helga. I'm going to be a little late for work. My son is having a baby."

There are three things wrong with Helga's statement; "My son is having a baby." One: boys do not have babies. Two: Helga does not have a son. Three: Helga is seventeen, so while it is possible that she could have hidden the fact that she had a son from me, the odds that her son is old enough to reproduce are fairly nil.

"What?"

"My" *cell phone static* "is having a baby."

"Whatever. How late are you going to be?"

"Maybe ten minutes."

Helga never shows up to close the store. This is the third week in a row I've had to close for someone because another employee just didn't show up. My head hurts. I need to sit down. My son is having a baby, and it is motionsick. If I sit down, I'll fall asleep, so I run to CVS to pick up some Coke. I plan on filling the Coke with our cherry syrup, because the CVS doesn't sell Cherry Coke, but I accidentally add Boysenberry syrup to my Coke. It's not as awful as it sounds. But it's close.

The phone rings. I expect it to be Clitty, as she hasn't called in nearly a day. A new record. It's not Clitty. "Thank you for calling the MBTA." the phone says. I have not called anyone. The recording has called me. I hang up the phone because I need to sit down, and I don't think I can handle sitting down and talking on the phone at the same time. I have to clean the espresso machine soon, but my son is ringing and his Boysenberry is sick.

I wanted to go to the Audioslave show tonight, but Boysenberry didn't show up to cover my shift, and CVS is motionsick. I didn't have tickets anyway. I've been listening to the radio all week to try and win. The last time the WBCN Ticket Load is announced on the radio, I call the station. Instead of Audioslave tickets, they are offering tickets to see Papa Roach. No, thank you. The DJ announces that he has taken the last pair of Audioslave tickets for himself, but to make up for it, he's going to play a half hour of Audioslave music. I decide to crank him. I call up and ask if they still have Nirvana tickets available. He laughs, then hangs up on me.

The espresso machine is still giving me its dirty look. Cleaning it will require getting up and moving. Instead, I call my house to check my messages. I don't have any. My voicemail is motionsick. My Boysenberry son is ringing the espresso machine. The MBTA wants tickets to Nirvana.

"Are you okay?" An unfamiliar woman on the other side of the counter asks.

I lie. "Yes."

"What time do you close?" She asks.

"Between seven and eight."

"Yesterday I came at 7:15 and there was nobody here." She says.

"Yes." I say, pulling myself up, using the mini-fridge for leverage. "If it's slow, we close around sevenish. If we're busy it's closer to eight."

"But yesterday, at 7:15..." My son is a minifridge with tickets to Nirvana. I grab some Boysenberry for leverage.

"I'm sorry." I say. "Can I get you something to drink? Maybe a cookie?"

She shakes her head and walks away. I grab a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie for myself, and begin to clean. Once the cookie has successfully voyaged into my stomach, I grab a lemonade from the minifridge, I add four spoons of sugar (it helps the medicine go down), and drink and clean and drink and clean and it's 8:30 and I'm beyond late for getting home for dinner. I grab a slice of pizza on the way to the T.

The T lurches. The pizza is made of aluminum and velcro. I need to get off the T. Copley. Sweet sweet Copley station is next. I get off, and wander around Newbury Street. Last time I was on Newbury, Dmitri and I were in the Hello Kitty Store buying lollipops for one of his professors. And for us. Each of us took a Hello Kitty Pop home. I still have mine. When I get home, I'll suck it away until I can suck no more. Goodbye Kitty, you make me motionsick. I grab Dmitri for leverage, but he hasn't been here in nearly a month. Fuck you Boysenberry Street, fucking with my memory.

It's not long before I'm in Newbury Comics, wandering around the used CD aisles. Before I moved to Pieceofshitdeserttown, I was a CD collector. I wanted to own every piece of music I loved. I had over 1,000 CDs, and I listened to as many of them as I could, as often as I could. Since I moved back from Pieceofshitdeserttown, I've bought one CD: Modest Mouse's Good News For people Who Love Bad News. Last year, I lent it to Celeste. I haven't seen it since. I'd be bitter, but a year and a half ago, she lent me Kingdom Hearts. She hasn't seen it since. Tonight I need music. I rebuy the Modest Mouse CD, as well as the best of Stone Temple Pilots, and the Velvet Revolver CD. A total of $20. Not too shabby. I count the rest of my money: 1.80. .90 for the bus ride home tonight, .90 for the bus ride to work tomorrow morning. At the bus stop is a woman who smells like the MBTA and Nirvana. I wait behind her for ten minutes, while two fags in hot hats talk about something I can't begin to comprehend. The way they wave their hands make me motionsick.

When the bus arrives, I get a transfer, and shut my eyes. I wake up in Central Square, my head is a minifridge filled with Boysenberry sailboats. I want leverage.

The wind cockslaps my face. I shake my head and look at the bus schedule. I have 45 minutes before my connection shows up. I open Running with Scissors and begin reading where I left off in the morning. I feel my head clearing. All of my instability is pouring out of my eyes and into the book about Augusten Burroughs' childhood. I didn't have a relationship with a pedophile until I was 19. My parents never left me with their crazy psychiatrist for more than an hour at a time. I'm the one in my family who writes crappy poetry, not my mother. My world comes into focus. Nothing is spinning anymore except the pinwheels that someone has attached to the back of a woman's wheelchair. I am content, and ready for anything. Modest Mouse is singing "The Good Times are Killing Me." A man motions for me to take off my headphones.

"Do you know what time our bus comes?" He asks.

Our bus? "9:45." I say.

"Good. Good." He says, inferring how much he's going to enjoy our special waiting time. "Mind if we talk?"

I look closer at him, trying to see if he's a police officer, a family member, someone I've wronged, a hallucination brought on by too much Boysenberry Coke and motionsickness. There are tears in his eyes. "I just need to talk to you about something." He says. That's when I realize, I'm sitting at a bus stop in the middle of Cambridge, and about to have a conversation with God.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/115354.html

The Real Catty World (Part 7: Regular)

You are not regular. I don't care if you shit every day at 8:45 AM, spend from 9-5 in a cubicle crunching numbers and drinking coffee. The fact that you like "24" and "Desperate Housewives" makes you average, but "average" and "regular" are not the same thing. Six inches hanging straight down may be average, but it ain't regular.

Three customers at work today asked for a "regular" coffee; one meant a medium black houseblend, one wanted a small houseblend with two creams and two sugars, and one wanted a shot of espresso. Words failed me, but not as much as the word "regular" failed them.

When a person writes a personal ad, and says he's a "regular guy", I picture an obese black underwear model with blonde hair, purple eyes, wearing only a sweater vest and six Swatch watches. His ass has a door over the hole that says "unleaded only". You know, regular.

I don't like regular people. My friends have style: Zuzu is adopting a miniature dachshund (against my advice) and, because dachshunds are German, naming it Pup Ratzinger. Celeste uses a 1950's era medical kit as a purse, and even writes with pens shaped like syringes. Dmitri drinks ketchup straight from the bottle when he's nervous. My friends don't even have regular names.



Landlord woke me up at 5 AM to tell me my room was messy. I knew this already. "Why are you in my room anyway?"

"I'm looking for dishes." he said.

"Try the kitchen." I rolled over and fell back asleep. I dreamed I was on "American Idol", freestyling a Christian gospelesque song while Billy Joel plaeds classical piano. I have this dream every Tuesday. It's a regular occurrence.

I rewoke up at 9:30, had eggs and toast with my new roommate, an Australian woman who tests the effects of psychotropic drugs on schizophrenics. I call her Dr. O.

"When I was sixteen," I told her, "my roommate, JBOB and I took mescaline for the first time. Just as the high started kicking in, we were given free tickets for a preview showing of Natural Born Killers. When it let out, we alternated between hiding in doorways and searching the city for Laura Palmer's remains. I haven't touched mescaline or NBK since."

At ten thirty, I caught a bus to work. A complete stranger with piercing green eyes said, as he stepped off the bus, "I love your haircut."

I stammered out a weak "Thanks?". He turned around and waved. His shirt said "Future Fry Cook". The film version of my life has run out of extras.

I was barely at work for a half hour when Clitty called. Twice. Fuck Clitty, I should refer to her as Needy Smurf. No, that's too harsh. Needy Bitch. She's been telling my coworkers she's my girlfriend, and she constantly "calls me back", which is remarkable only because I never call her first.

After an uneventful day of pouring coffee, I took the T to Quincy to mail books to prisoners. As I opened the door to the church I heard "Safey?" And across the street was my beautiful ex-not-quite-boyfriend, MAMIP. "It really is you."

I wondered if he was surprised at my haircut, the fact that I was wearing the shirt he bought me, or that I was entering a church. Turns out, one of my illustrious former coworkers told him I'd moved back to Arizona. "Right." I said. "Just after I had breast augmentation and took up drinking kerosene and lighting my belches on fire."

He stared blankly at me. I am on the receiving end of this look more than I care to admit.

We exchanged new phone numbers and soap opera stares until he had to go to work.

When I was finished with my volunteer work, I headed over to Zuzu's for dinner and BTVS. Then I headed home and went to sleep. Alone.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/114642.html

Odd Jobs

Every morning, on my way to the hospital, I find the hottest guy on the bus and try to picture how Interesting our life will be when he realizes that I'm his soul mate. Usually, there's a body part to fixate on: eyes, hair, the back of their head.

Today's obsession was all eyes and fauxhawk until he folded his copy of The Metro, revealing a bright-green (eye accentuating) t-shirt that read "Future Fry Cook". This suits him probably more than he'd like to admit. But is this his long-term career path or do his shirts and jobs change by the season?

If this sort of honesty through t-shirt slogan catches on, I can finally land myself a blue shirted "Future Doctor" or better yet, a black shirted "Living Off Multi-Billion Dollar Inheritance".

I see myself flipping through my closet, filled with "Recovering Bartender", "Former Loss Prevention Agent", "Jester-Suited Fudge Maker Eventually Embarrassed Into Finding Real Job". I would keep the pretentious "Occasionally Makes Money Off Writing" in the back, with the stonewashed denim suit and the Kurt Cobain flannel.

Future Fry Cook clears his throat when he notices that I'm staring at him. I blink my eyes twice and redirect my imagination out the window.

At work, I tell Celeste a revised version of my fantasy: "An entire closet of patchwork t-shirts reading "Odd Jobber".

"What about 'Marginally Employed Barrista Approaching Thirty'? Or 'Whore With Crippling Emotional Distance'?"

"Laugh It Up 'Flakey Artist Who Pours Coffee Near Hospital'."

This will never catch on. I'd rather wear a shirt that had pictures of all the ugly guys I've slept with. At least then I'll be able to point out that it's all stuff from my past, not my future. No, really, someday I will be a famous novelist. I'm not a "Future Waiter", I'm a "Former Waiter".

I'm in the middle of coming up with a color scheme for my line of "Future Job Wear" when a guy with the most beautiful eyes in the world approaches the counter. He is the fourth person with "the most beautiful eyes in the world" that I've seen today.

I'm convinced that he's about to tell me how hot I look in the black hat I've been wearing to hide the fact that I didn't have time to wash my hair this morning, but what he actually says is "I'd like a hot black Colombian with lots of head."

Me, too. Oh, wait, he means the coffee.

I've really got to find a new job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/111443.html

Aimee Mann's Favorite Seventeen Candy Hearts

One of my friends from The Cantab Lounge has a show next week. Possibly to soften me up so I'd come see her show, or more likely because she's just a good person, she gave me a ride home from last week's slam. During the car trip, she gave me a Valentine's Day gift that she'd been holding on to, as I'd not seen her since January. The gift? A plastic heart filled with little candy hearts.

I'd forgotten about the heart until tonight, when it fell out of my jacket pocket. Being slightly hungry, and in major need of a sugar rush, I opened up the plastic heart, and poured out its contents. The bag contained seventeen candy hearts, and they all said the same thing: "Wise up"

I'm a crush you with my teeth, you sarcastic little bitches. Then I'm going to lay in bed, reevaluating my life.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/109558.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 7: Returning A Bottle Rocket To Its Shelf))

Dmitri is on the phone with the airline. It's snowing. And while the snow looks heavy from inside the house, I know it's not heavy enough to ground him here for one more night. Dmitri is leaving to return to his what passes for normal life. Landlord has offered to drive us to the airport whenever Dmitri's flight leaves.

"Hello?" Dmitri asks, signaling he's finally through the robot barricade and talking to an actual living person over the phone.

I stare at his bags because I think this will make him more comfortable than if I were to stare at him. I hate it when most people look at me while I'm doing something uninteresting. And because I'm neurotic, and Dmitri is neurotic, I just assume he feels the same way, so I stare at his bags, then his shoes, then...his ass?

In the days before wireless phones, my mother used to tangle the fuck out of phone cords during nervous conversation. She always had to be doing something with her hands. Her nervous behavior, and my father's ascent into obesity are just a few reasons I'm glad I'm not biologically related to them. Of course, my birth father was a rapist, so maybe obesity wouldn't be so bad.

Rather than tangle the cord on the phone, Dmitri is playing with his pants. As he giggle something about "So you can't tell me whether or not the plane is leaving?" his pants ride just low enough for me to make out a few inches of crack. I hope this is a signal. The snow will pick up. The pants will come down. We'll soon be making out, and I'll be running my fingers down that crack and...look at the bags, Safey, look at the bags.

He hangs up the phone and repeats the conversation that I just half heard. He's impossibly cute.

Whatever we talk about for the next hour must be fleeting because all I can think of is want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss. Then, it's time to head to the airport. Landlord gets the car running, we grab all of Dmitri's bags, and head to the car. We should be at the airport in...wait, we're headed in the wrong direction. Maybe Landlord is helping me kidnap Dmitri. This idea would intrigue me, except that Landlord is a sixty-something year old guy who likes to go to foreign countries and pick up young boys and do...whatever he does. I don't share well. But we are not on our way to the airport, we are clearly at the T station. I am tempted to say "This isn't the airport", but this week has gone particularly bad in every way except for Dmitri, and I'd rather just spend some time on the T with Dmitri anyway.

want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss Talk about nothing. want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss want to kiss

And we're here. The airport. Dmitri is leaving. The lady behind the counter won't let him bring his bags carry on this time, so he checks them. I want to say how sorry I am that my friends let him down (because I'm used to them letting me down, that's no big deal to me, I let them down just as often). I want to say I wish we'd had more time. I want to kiss him, and follow him to the gate, and on the plane, and back to Chicago. I could move my life to Chicago. Steggy is there. Dmitri is there. I know loads of people in Chicago, why I could...kill myself rather than move again. I'm no longer a satellite in search of a planet. I am a star, and someone will make their orbit around me.

And it's time for him to go, and we shake hands. A handshake. We met because he liked the way I wrote about being a complete whore, and the only physical contact is a handshake? I'm so far off my game, I'm playing patty-cake.

His plane takes him home where his Mutually Exclusive Hookup Partner will soon become his Boyfriend. They'll make forts out of blankets and play video games. I'll be at home playing solitaire.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/115804.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 6: Crush Crash))

I want the phone to ring. A trumpet flare or a sitar version of "Stay (Faraway, So Close!". I want the phone to ring, but only if there's a guy on the other end. I want the phone to crawl across the floor, lovingly nuzzle me, and say "It's for you." There's too many qualifications, but still I want the fucken phone to ring. It does. "Hello?" Please be Dmitri, please be Dmitri.

"Hey, it's Dmitri," He laughs. Lucky fucker is drunk. "Where do you live?" I give him directions for the cab ride back. An hour and a half later, he's sitting on the couch next to me. He tells me about $4 bottles of water, and finding "(his) people", hot guys who excitedly dance to Kelly Clarkson. I want His People in bed, but they must wear headphones in public. He heads to bed after "The Oblongs". I also decide to crash.

His whole visit has caused me to crash into contemplativityness reflection. After a delicious homecooked meal of fettuccine and Jiffy blueberry muffins, I stack the dishes on the table.

"You're so NEAT." Dmitri says. "Wht would you do if I made a mess?" He grabs a pile of Landlord's papers and scatters them over the floor.

I shrug. "Wait for you to pick it up." I say, knowing his OCD will kick in, and he'll be compelled to unmessify the floor. A few minutes later, he does.

I really want to kiss him, and it's bugging the fuck out of me. I'm supposed to be a top, the control guy, but I find myself wanting to wait hand and foot on this nudge. He's adorable and everything, but he's not that hot. Am I becoming a Middle Man? A "top" guy who waits for a "bottom" to tell him how to do everything? Shoot me yesterday.

"I'm bored." He says.

We go to The Trident to meet Clitty for lunch. I'm almost out of cash, so I have this long internal dialogue about cashing my check. I scan through some books while Dmitri paces. Like all of my other friends, Clitty is late. I locate her via cell, and determine that Dmitri and I have enough time to shop on Newbury Street before Clitty will show up. First stop, Diesel, where Dmitri spends over $100 on a t-shirt I could get at Garment District for $5. I taunt him for being a Fag. Then we go to the Hello Kitty Store. I no longer have the right to taunt anyone for being faggy.

Clitty is waiting when we get back to the cafe. Our server is hot but completely incompetent. Clitty and I are discussing whether I should cash my check when I hear Dmitri breathing heavily...into a straw...that's bent into his left ear. "It sounds like an airplane." So I'm in crush with a four year old.

I turn to Clitty to mock him, but she has MY straw bent into HER ear and says, "This feels sooooo good." Clitty needs to get laid.

In an effort to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, I start talking about asses. Clitty asks to see Dmitri's (because she's clASSy, mot socially obtrusive). He would have turned red, if his skintone allowed. He stood up and walked away from us. Due to his baggy jeans, I couldn't yet comment on his ass.

After Dmitri charmingly overpays the bill, we head to Central Square to cash my check. It's snowing. On the bus, Clitty and Dmitri serenade me with a Brittney Spears song. It's cute, weird, and incredibly out of tune.

The banks are closed, so we have to go to a Western Union to cash my meager checklet. Not having my ID, I sign the check over to Clitty. The woman behind the bulletproof glass says she's not allowed to cash it because it's now 3rd party. She does anyway, so I go across the street to buy her a flower. Dmitri chastises me for jaywalking, and Clitty finally realizes "You have red hair." This, after months of trying to tell me I don't have red hair. Chicks are dumb and colorblind.

After Western Union Lady has been flowered, and Clitty has left for a haircut, Dmitri and I head back to my house for what may be the last time. Unless the snow gets so bad, his flight gets delayed. Please, let it snow harder.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/114747.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 5: Why I Missed The Dance)

Just because a guy wears a hot pink shirt and leather pants, doesn't mean he sucks cock. But in this case, it was a pretty good indicator.

It's a Thursday night in Boston, which means Campus Gay Night at Club Manray, so odds are that the three hot guys in the outrageously Gay outfits do, in fact, suck a little cock now and again.

"I call the one with the long hair." Clitty says, as we carry our pizza over to a booth at HiFi.

"Given." I say, trying to decide which of the other two I'd rather molest. Actually, I probably won't be molesting anyone. Knowing me as well as I do, I'm pretty sure I'll just watch them out of my peripheral vision as they grab their French Fries and take off for Manray. But they don't leave with their French Fries. They sit down. NEXT TO ME and Clitty.

Clitty, being her remarkably socially obtrusive self, starts a conversation about blah blah bah, who cares, I'm not listening to her, I'm focused on them. Pink Shirt talks about why he likes Manray, how cool he is, and other things that make me happy that Clitty has called dibs on him. "I mean, I don't know what you call it when you like a bunch of chicks, but only one at a time---"

"Serial monogamy." I offer.

"Yea. That's totally what I am, a serial monogolist. But right now there's this girl I'm kind of seeing, but she's going to Maine right, and then like, we're gonna break off for three months, and then we'll see what happens."

"That's so wrong." Says the moderately cute guy in the mesh shirt and eyeliner. "If you love someone..." he drones on and on about love and society and other things that only someone completely awful in bed can care about.

The third one, the blond guy in the hoody, just sits back and takes it all in, occasionally smiling to himself. I decide he's the one I should obsess about, which means he's probably straight.

Eyeliner drolls on "...I mean I have my social security card, my birth certificate, and my worker's ID card, I just can't afford to get my Driver's License yet. They'll let me in, though right. I mean it's not like I want to drink. I'm twenty. I just want to see what happens there. We drove all the way from Cranberry Lake."

"Whereabouts in Cranberry Lake?" I ask. And he describes roughly the neighborhood I lived in about six years ago. And they're all in their early twenties. It occurs to me, I was probably their camp counselor ten years ago.

"We should invite them back to my house for a few drinks." Clitty says while Pink Shirt and Eyeliner argue about "their band" and Hoody suppresses a smirk.

I mouth no, and prepare to leave.

This is why I always miss the exciting nightclub life. There's always a reason: I'm too old, I'm too tired, my hair's too long, I'm not in the right mood. Even when Dmitri was in town, I was actively coming up with reasons not to go dancing with him when a legitimate reason fell in my lap like burning hot spaghetti sauce: Celeste.

I had told all my important friends: Clitty, Cali, Zuzu, and Celeste, that Dmitri was coming into town. Cali had offered to take me to meet him (which she failed to do), Zuzu had agreed to meet us at the aquarium (which she failed to do), Clitty said she'd hang out with us on Newbury Street (which she did, but she was late), and Celeste suggested we go to The Good Time Emporium, the local Chuck E. Cheese for adults. I'd been really clear with all my friends that I wanted my nights free to spend quality time with Dmitri. And, no, that didn't necessarily mean sex, just that I didn't want to spend one of the three nights he was in town doing anything that wasn't Dmitricentric. These were his nights in Boston.

Unfortunately, a week or so earlier, I had helped Celeste film an animation project, and we hadn't quite finished. When she asked when we could finish it, I said "Before Dmitri comes to town, or after he leaves." So, of course, the only night she could get equipment was the first night of Dmitri's visit. The night we were guest listed at a club that wasn't Manray. Guest listed. Guest listed. I'd be stupid not to go out clubbing with a hot gay that I was crushing on when we were on a fucken guest list.

So I'm stupid.

Celeste and her friend that Landlord dubbed Goth Girl, showed up at 7ish. Dmitri was supposed to meet a friend at the Dyke Coffeehouse at 8. He offered to walk while we started the animation project, but I was all kinds of pissy, and didn't feel like making him walk. I had given up a night of dancing with him to shoot this video, Goth Girl could damn well drive him to the coffeehouse. On our way, we picked up some vodka so that Dmitri could "ready himself" for his first time ever at a Gay dance club. Then we got lost. I mean Lost. It's really simple to get from my house to the coffeehouse. I'd walked it at least a half dozen times, but I'd never driven it, and with all the one way streets in Boston, we somehow managed to overshoot the coffeehouse by several miles.

Now, I should explain, this was THE THIRD TIME we'd been lost since Dmitri showed up. Somehow, I managed to find the abandoned warehouse/art gallery easily, despite never having been there before. But the Aquarium, where I used to be a member, completely eluded me. Coming out of the gallery, we walked back to the T, and I asked a cab driver how to get there. He pointed vaguely into the distance and Dmitri and I began walking that way. The completely wrong fucken way. We were, in fact, on the wrong side of Boston Harbor. Asshole cab drivers and how much I hated my friends became my favorite topics for the rest of the week. I don't remember the second time we got lost because I was probably still talking about the first time.

Once we realized we'd overshot the coffeehouse, Dmitri called his friend to tell her he'd be late. This was fine, as she was also running late. He took a swig of some Skyy, I tried to be comforting, he exited the car, and Celeste, Goth Girl, and I drove back to my place.

I should point out here, that I didn't really know Goth Girl. For all I know she's a wonderful person who was just having a bad night, but I do know that the two of us were not feeling much love for each other that night. I was quietly fuming over missing the dance club, but wanting to be a good friend to Celeste, and Goth Girl was angry because I don't drive in Boston, so my directions are from a walker's perspective. When walking, one is completely oblivious to one way streets. I told her a block in advance that we should take a left at the next Dunkin Donuts. Unfortunately, neither of us saw said Dunkin Donuts until she was speeding by it. The next four lefts were one way streets going the wrong way.

When we get back to the house, we were being polite in a way that underscored how much we really weren't liking each other. We filmed for what felt like days. On the way out, Celeste referenced a dingleberry, and instead of just saying "Penguin Lust", I let it get under my skin. I assumed she was pissed at me, or she wouldn't have brought him up.

Fine, I gave up a chance to dance with my cute crush on his first night in town so I could exchange catty digs with a friend that I was doing a favor for.

I went back to my room to pout, when I realized something very troubling. I couldn't find Dmitri's phone number. Dmitri was out at a club in an unfamiliar city with some chick he met over Livejournal. I had no way to contact him, and if he lost his cell phone or had some sort of weird emergency, he had no way to contact me. I was mid-freak out when the phone rang. "Hey Safey, it's Celeste, did I leave the videotape there?" She did not. If we spent all that time filming and being snippy with each other and she'd lost the tape, I was going to go to Church and take communion just so I could once again renounce God and embrace Agnosticism. She ended up finding the tape. God was spared my re-rejection. For the moment.

I turned on Adult Swim and resumed pacing. If I stopped moving, I'd fall asleep. If I fell asleep, and missed Dmitri's call (assuming he had my number), he'd never find his way back to the house. I am the worst host ever. I hate my friends. I hate my irresponsibility. I hate Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I hate that it's past two o'clock in the morning and I don't know where Dmitri is. I hate that I just shifted from past to present tense. But that's how focused on self-evaluation I was, time shot everywhere around me. Every tiny little failure in my life, not the monumental life changing ones, the stupid shit, was bopping around my head. Fuck. Dmitri's family didn't even know he was in Boston. If he was kidnapped, gang raped and murdered by a bunch of drag queens, what would I do? I didn't know his family or his friends, what, was I going to leave a comment in his boyfriend's Livejournal: "Hi, you don't know me, but your boyfriend was kind of staying at my house the other night, and he was gang raped and murdered while he was out at a club. Ummm...do you want me to mail you his iPod?"

I stared at the phone, willing it to ring.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113811.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 4: Dmitri Responds To Part 3)

So, it's interesting to be writing about someone who actually reads this journal on a regular basis. I have tweaked the order of when things happened during Dmitri's visit in order to make certain points, but otherwise, I'm trying to be as honest as I can about his visit. So I e-mailed Dmitri and asked what he thought of the last post. His response:

The old woman at the aquarium didn't say much of importance, it was all just facts about the sharks. The one dumbass woman was all "VY DON'T DE SHARKS JUST EAT EVERY-TING?" and the old woman explained how little the sharks eat or how they feed them and they usually just DON'T EAT AT ALL. God, how stupid. But then WE had the idea of listening intently so that we could go down to one of the floors and repeat everything as if we just HAPPENED to know everything there was about tiger sharks.

My criticism (of your last post)? Only one.

I HATED ROCKHOPPER PENGUINS THEY'RE AWFUL VILE AND TERRIBLE LITTLE BASTARDS! I do NOT like having a parallel made to such STUPID birds.

Their hair was TERRIBLE, the noise they made was ridiculous, they all took turns, but didn't go in any specific order, and there WAS a conflict. The one chick wanted to make her noise and this guy took her place so she started squabbling and making a big mess until she silenced the other guy. And THEN she didn't even go! What a bitch! I hate Rockhopper penguins and their little SOCIETIES.

haha, remember the one fucker rockhopper penguin that LEFT the rock with the others and stood with the other, quieter, better penguins? THE PENGUINS ON THE MAIN ROCK STILL RESPECTED HIS RIGHT TO MAKE NOISE DURING HIS OWN TURN.

and what the hell did i say about sharks and turtles?

Also: I fantasized about throwing one of the huge fish up in the air, letting it slam on the ground, and then stomping all over it to secure my dominion as Top of the Food Chain.

You also didn't say anything about GETTING LOST and having a taxi driver give you WRONG DIRECTIONS and you bringing it up in every conversation no matter the topic. DON'T GET ME WRONG, I thought it was cute how you fixated on things that bother you to the point where you can't talk about anything besides how annoyed you are at taxi drivers.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113545.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 3: On The Inside Of The Glass)

If I were a gerbil, my water bottle would be filled with Cherry Coke. If [Data Embargo] Dmitri were a gerbil, he'd be doing commercial modeling for Habitrail. If I were a gerbil, and Dmitri were a gerbil, we could have the kind of hot, kinky gerbil sex that doesn't invoke the urban myth of Richard Gere and an Emergency Room visit.

I'm not a gerbil, and neither is Dmitri. We are two humans who met through Livejournal, decided to hang out in person, and decided that a trip to an art exhibit would be fun. we hadn't anticipated that said "art exhibit" would be inside a warehouse that gave off serious Freddy Kreuger vibes. But there we were, on the wrong side of a swinging door. On our side of the door: wood chips, a fake hanging water bottle, large fake gerbil turds, a bowl full of water, another bowl full of stale crullers that were supposed to look like gerbil food, no other door, and the windows were barred. On the other side of the door, ominously approaching footsteps. Footsteps that never materialized into another human being.

During our moment of fear, I should have wrapped my arms protectively around Dmitri and maybe kissed him. I didn't. The two of us just sort of wandered around the giant cage making jokes about how bizarre it was that this exhibit was held inside a seemingly abandoned warehouse.

While I kicked fake turds, Dmitri swung on the giant bird swing, the only part of the exhibit that was out of place with the whole Gerbil Cage Mystique. I've owned several gerbils in my day, and never bought a trapeze swing for any of them. Gerbils would make shitty acrobats.

From the lifesize gerbil cage, we made our way to The New England Aquarium. We were supposed to meet Zuzu there in the early afternoon, but like just about all my friends that I'd made plans with during Dmitri's visit, she failed to show. So we went in without her. On our way in, our photograph was taken. I would have liked a photograph of the time we spent together, but their photo looked like shit, I hated my hair, and they wanted like a bazillion bucks for a cheap ass picture that we hadn't been prepared for.

After making our way through the jellyfish exhibit, where Dmitri proved his skillz at video games by defeating a jellyfish game designed for six year olds, we arrived at The Giant Ocean Tank. As we circled the tank, Dmitri said some rather insightful things about sharks and giant turtles before jumping back about five feet and letting out a rather loud "Oh, gross!"

I imagined that if I looked hard enough, I'd see an amputated bloody hand floating in the tank. Then, I remembered how Dmitri felt about other human beings, and realized he'd be overjoyed to see that the Aquarium was feeding human beings to the fish. "What is it?" I asked.

"That fish. It's so huge and ugly. I hate giant things." I made a mental note not to show him my penis, then I made another mental note that I didn't have a giant penis, and we would both be safe should penis presentation time ever arrive.

At the top of the tank, an old lady was telling a young mom and her brood something interesting about sharks that I fully intended to remember and write about, but the goldfish part of my brain has since vanquished. Dmitri and I discussed how unhungry he was after the traumatizing giant fish situation, and headed back down around the tanks to check out The Penguin Pool.

For those of you just joining this journal, I love penguins so much, I am tempted to write I <3 Rockhoppers the most. Maybe it's the punk rock hair, maybe it's the way they honk for attention, I don't know. But it was at The Rockhopper exhibits that I had my first revelation concerning my feelings for Dmitri. Rockhoppers are incredibly territorial, and, while sociable, don't appear to be overly friendly. While we watched, one of the aquarium employees was moving around the pool doing something scientific. The Rockhoppers were taking turns honking at him. One would spend ten seconds "singing", then another would begin. There was never any overlap in the honking, and there as rarely a second between one penguin's honking and another. They were cute, obnoxious, and loud. Like Elvis. Like Alex. Like Dmitri. Nothing at all like MAMIP or Liam or Ryan; they were Magellanics.

I thought I'd passed through my Rockhopper phase, now preferring a less needy guy who loved me more than the attention I lavished on him.

Don't get me wrong, I am not and was not in love with Dmitri. I love his writing, the way he thinks, the way he blows into his own ear with a bendy straw when I accidentally stop paying attention to him for ten seconds while Clitty asks me a question. I think he is mentally and physically amazingly beautiful, but I wasn't in love with him. I was just terrified by how easily I could have been in love with him if the scenario was a little different: say, we lived in the same city, or if I wasn't spending so much of his visit brooding over my irresponsible friends, or if he didn't have a boyfriend. I may be a naive, lust hungry, easy target for falling in love, but I have enough self-control to never allow myself to be in love with someone who is in a relationship already.

"He's not your type." Clitty said well after Dmitri had left Boston.

"What is my type?" I asked in my vaguely annoyed tone of voice.

"I don't know. He's so Young. Don't get me wrong, he's adorable, and really sweet, but don't you think you'd be happier with someone older?" This from the thirty-eight year old, currently lusting after eighteen year old breakdancers.

"He doesn't write like he's Young. And, I mean, he does act Young, but he's so self-aware. I act Young all the time. It's what keeps me from being a depressed misanthrope like you."

Wisely, the topic of conversation changed at that point.

So what if he was is seven years and seventeen days younger than I am? He's...not available, so why bother finishing that particular line of logic?

"Do you want to go dancing?" He asked me, the night after our gerbil excursion.

The answer was Yes. I've never been a club kid, never spent much time at Manray or any of the clubs in Provincetown, but I've always secretly wanted to go, and now I had the opportunity to be guest listed at a club where I could dance with an insanely hot, nerdy, meglaphobic gay crush. So why didn't I go?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113357.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 2: Claiming Dmitri's Baggage)

Dmitri wears Diesel shoes. His shoes match his outfits flawlessly. Not in that pink shirt, pink sweatpants, pink shoes sort of way. His outfits are often from different stores, are different colors, and different styles, but they are, unquestionably, matching styles. They're unquestionably hot.

Having left a majority of my clothes in Pieceofshitdeserttown, my outfits are uhh...well, not outfits. And my shoes? During the last snowstorm my shoes got the toes kicked out of them. My feet didn't actually stick out of the toes, but I did look like a homeless person from the ankles down. I wasn't completely aware of this until I was actually on my way into Logan airport to pick Dmitri up. What I did know was that one of my many unreliable friends had flaked out and, as a result, my hair cut had never happened. I was a long-haired, homeless shoed freak in a non-matching outfit when I arrived at Logan. Late.

I buzzarded around Baggage Claim and the arrival gates about four times. His flight arrived at 10:45, and I had arrived at Logan at 10:47. I am tempted to blame this one Unreliable Friend #1, but I should have known that she wasn't going to show up or even bother to call me to let me know she wasn't going to show up, because she is one of my friends, and as I have learned this week, my friends are unreliable. If they say they're going to meet me somewhere at 6:30, they may or may not be there by 8:00, and odds are, they won't call to let me know they're running behind. I've been moderately aware of this for a few years now. In fact, I've caught some of their unreliableness. This is what happens when you belong to a community of people who advertise events starting at 7:30, but don't actually show up until 9:00.

I was cursing Unreliable Friend #1 for not giving me a ride to Logan (she was catching a flight there an hour after I was to pick up Dmitri, so I wasn't asking her to go out of her way) while I buzzarded. I was on pass number five, when I turned around. Dmitri was behind me. Apparently, he'd been following me for a turn or two. I'll probably want to kick myself for using Elvis's word, but the only thing I can think of to describe Dmitri is kyoooooot.

We took a bus, then the T, then a bus back to my place. Most of the trip home we followed/were followed by The Man in The Red Jacket. a mysterious stranger who had apparently been staring at Dmitri from the time he left Chicago. Creeeeeeepy. We ended up losing him when I got on the train going in the wrong direction. He did not follow us when we got off, and switched to a train going the right way.

Once Dmitri was unpacked, we went out for Indian food. On our trek to the restaurant , Dmitri began his one man show. I don't want to bore you with all the details, but I'm going to. When he was done berating me for not bringing a granola bar with me when I met him at the airport, he began making fun of my shoes. He then made several attempts to kick pigeons who had the misfortune to cross his path. When I crossed the street at places that were clearly not crosswalks, he let out a high pitched squeal, and ran across the street like a Muppet with its fur on fire. If he hadn't told me about his Mutually Exclusive Hookup Partner, I would have taken him right there in the street.

Our conversations deserve a post of their own, a la Drunken Conversations at Hampshire College. Dmitri is easily the Most Interesting Conversationalist I've ever met. He talks in and out of Gay so effortlessly, unlike most of our contemporaries. While Dmitri was on his cell, chatting with a Gay friend about dancing plans, I was on the phone with the guy who created the PE(s)T exhibit, a giant gerbil cage. The person sounded incredibly Gay. He expressed an interest in being at the exhibit when Dmitri and I arrived. I imagined him spending an infinite amount of time explaining"his vision" and the "metaphorical ramifications of a gigantic gerbil cage". This was not something I looked forward to.

Dmitri and I were discussing how Gay our phone partners had sounded when we arrived at the address of the exhibit. It didn't look like any art gallery I'd ever seen. In fact, it looked like exactly like the sort of vacant warehouse where serial killers rape, torture, and kill young art patrons and grind their bodies and incorporate them in their next "project". I sensed we would be the basis for an upcoming "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit". Dmitri vocally agreed with my inner-monologue, as we opened the heavy wooden door that led into the obvious trap art gallery. The stairway was filled with face shots of all the other unsuspecting people murdered on their way into the gallery.

Over the phone, The Artiste had said that his exhibit was on the third floor, the sign said it was on the fourth floor. I made the mistake of believing the artist over the sign (I spend lots of time with artists, I should have known to follow the sign), and Dmitri and I got out at the third floor. Someone in one of the little cubicles was either pureeing a human flesh smoothie, or vacuuming up the clues from the last murder. We quietly returned to the staircase and made our way to the fourth floor.

At the end of the long hallway was a set of bars that could only signify a gigantic gerbil cage, the place you lock up prisoners, or both.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/106397.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 1: A Bundle Of Nerves)

Like most members of the animal kingdom, I am a bundle of nerves. Strike the right one, and I'm yours.

So far in my sensual history, I've fallen in LOVE with three people: Ryan, MAMIP & Liam. All of them sweet, and willing to do almost anything for anyone. One was straight and easily spooked, one gay and easily spooked, the other, completely unable to cope with his sexuality. But love is so overrated.

The guys I fall in LUST with get on my fucken nerves. In our first conversation, Elvis's voice was like a cat in heat being rubbed claws down on a chalkboard made of aluminum. Of course, I was Demoraled out of my mind, at the time, so I invited him to fly up and visit me. Worse, I spent money I didn't have buying his ticket.

Just about every guy I've found hot is either a spaz, a compulsive liar, a dingleberry or a user. Dmitri doesn't appear to be any of these. Annoying? Well, yea, but in SUCH a HOT way. The sort of annoying you want to get up real close to and kiss, and throttle so that the annoying tongue slides into your mouth.

I haven't been this nervous in quite a while. In six hours, I head over to my friend Cali's for a haircut. I'll give her a couple of books to take to one of my friends in Ireland, and then we'll drive to the airport, where she'll be heading off to Europe, and I'll be meeting Dmitri and taking him home.

Yep, for the first time since Elvis, someone is coming from out of state to spend time with me. Unlike Elvis, however, this is a very short term platonic visit. Three days, two nights.

So why am I so nervous?

I really like Dmitri. He's funny, smart, hot, and while he's not A WRITER, he happens to be a very talented writer. Much more talented than most of the "writers" that I know. He's also cruel, needy, and sarcastic. Three attributes which, against my better judgment, are HUGE turn ons for me.

So, in the week since I've known he was coming, I've been calmly trying to thing of fun things we can do on my...ahem...extremely limited budget. I've also been leisurely getting my room organized, and attempting to not freak out Dmitri, who is also a bundle of nerves. For the first few days, I successfully remained unfreakedout. Then my computer crashed. Then my TV crashed into my computer. Yesterday, I walked a mile into the evil sleet storm that hit Boston. The sleet was so hard, the discman I was holding was skipping. Today, on my way to work, I missed the bus I was aiming for, but the bus didn't miss me, slamming a HUGE puddle of slush first on my left side prompting me to say "Ohhhh gross." which allowed my mouth to be open just wide and long enough to get a mouth full of yummy Somerville slush. These are all wonderful signs.

So now, I'm in freak out mode. Straight Roommate leaves for Kaleeeeefornya in four hours, so he's hogging the washing machine, so I can't even finish my laundry. I tried doing it yesterday, but Landlord was doing his. The day before? Straight Roommate. Fuckers. I was going to borrow Zuzu's car to do the Logan run, but it won't start. I left my tips at work. The first time I wrote this entry, I tripped over the power cord and....yea.

I'm hoping that I get all this bad luck out of my system BEFORE Cali starts cutting my hair. I'm also hoping that Straight Roommate gets off the phone soon, so Dmitri can call. Right now, he's really getting on my last nerve.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/105938.html

Penguin Lust, Unrevisited

There's no conceivable reason why ACDC's "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You" is stuck in my head. No one around me recently has sung or referenced that song, no one has rocked (or appeared about to), and I have not seen someone salute anyone since I shaved off my Hitler mustache in the mid nineties (I'm kidding, I'd never shave off my Hitler mustache...I mean, I've never had a Hitler mustache).

All week long, the wrong things have been popping into my head: that horribly catchy Maroon 5 single, Manamana, the word "phlebotomy". At work, a softspoken man was trying to order a raisin scone, and I kept hearing him say "bra strap, bra strap, bra strap" over and over.

The crazy quotient in my life keeps escalating. My mother called last week to tell me she heard an ad for a job on the radio that would be perfect for me: bag checker at Logan airport. When I tell her that I'm not the least bit interested, she asks if I'm content to bag groceries for the rest of my life. I've never worked in a grocery store in my life, but now I'm considering it just because I think she's prejudiced against supermarket clerks.

Yesterday, she called and asked if she could visit on Saturday. Just as she hung up, Zuzu called and suggested driving to New York City on Saturday to see a poetry event. When I reminded her that Dmitri is going to be in town on Saturday, and that he might not want to spend ten hours of his visit in a car, I realized that the real issue was that I didn't want to be trapped in a car for ten hours with Zuzu, Dmitri, and Zuzu's latest "boy toy", a guy who, within the first five minutes of my first conversation with him, brought up both how easy it is to murder someone AND how complicated his life has been since he was released from the mental institution.

Today I received an e-mail from someone saying that they were removing me from their friends list because I mentioned in an entry that I don't like cunnilingus. If you've read enough of my journal to decide to add me as a friend, and you don't realize that I'm not going to be a huge proponent of cunnilingus, I just don't know what to say except: "Penguin lust."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/105323.html

Craisins

Tonight's fortune cookie (What? It's left over from last night. It's not like fortune cookies aren't already stale.)...so...tonight's fortune cookie says "Although it feels like a roller coaster now, life will calm down."

Oddly enough, tonight's fortune cookie, despite being from the same place, is a different color than last night's, and this one doesn't have any Chinese translations on it (last night's informed me that the chinese word "tang" means "sugar").

But, back to the fortune. I'm not sure I want my life to calm down. Ok, I don't ever plan on doing anything like a Foam Party again, and I doubt I'll ever meet another guy via a dating site, but I do have a friend visiting from out of town, and I'd hate for him to be bored. Don't get me wrong, I don't anticipate the visit being anything you're going to read about (unless he brings penguins, then I'll be erecting a monument in his honor [author's note: this is the first time in the history of this journal that "erect" has been used in a non-sexual manner]).

But, back to roller coasters. Apparently, when I was a kid, I used to love rollercoasters. At some point, one of those amusement park staples made me puke. And since then, no roller coasters for me. When I was nine or ten, my parents tricked me into going on "Thunderbolt Mountain" at Disney World. Man, they paid for that. I cried like a fashonista at a Phish concert.

Eventually I learned to appreciate fast, non-rollercoaster rides. I've gone white water rafting a few times, and I don't even want to contemplate how many tickets I've spent on The Gravitron at various fairs. But I hate fucken roller coasters. So if my life is a roller coaster, well...maybe a change is in order.

But, back to not boring people. I've discovered the ultimate conversation killer: craisins. Any time you're talking with a hot guy and you want to cause an uncomfortable silence, just mention the word "craisin". It's definitely going to be my safe word if I ever do any bondage play, which I'm never going to do, because I'm boring.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/103827.html