(CONTINUED FROM PART 1 and PART 2, PART 3 )

You can always feel it coming. The curdling air before an acquaintance decides to let their necessary fiction slip. Before they tell you about their scab collection, their grabby uncle, the dog they fucked in grade school. Some unwanted crush you tried to ignore. You can feel the back pressure build, then release, in one awkward, stammering, burst. Sustained Anonymity is a much underrated personality trait.

Tom stared with sick fascination.

“Are you a zombie?” Tom asked.

I tried to meet Tom’s stare. But one eye kept drifting left and down.

“Hard to say. I don’t know the criteria” I said.

Tom nodded along with my non-answer, as if it confirmed some previous suspicion.

“Are you hungry for brains?” Tom asked.

I didn’t know what that would feel like. I’d never been a craving guy. I was, upon reflection, actually pretty full, though… almost uncomfortably so. My gut bulged like a sun starved famine victim, round and pale.

“No. Not especially.”

Tom paced excitedly across the room. On his second pass through he turned and punched me hard in the face. The cartilage in my nose fanned alarmingly to the left; a slow ooze of blood sagged down my cheek. I should have been upset. Tom smeared two fingers through the thickest of the crimson.

“It’s fucking cold!” Tom said. Delighted, rubbing the muck greedily between fingers and thumb.

“This is fucked. You’re dead! How are you standing here?”

I was actually sitting. Normally I’d let that slide, but I felt a little attacked. Demeaned, somehow. It seemed obvious and cruel to harp on my condition.

“I’m sitting” I said.

Tom ignored the correction. His pacing gathered steam until he was doing wind sprints (nearly) from the kitchen to the front door, and back. Occasionally he’d take a lap around the couch for variety. Now and again he would freeze, then glitch across the room like bad stop motion. I couldn’t remember how fast things went.

Tom stopped. Legitimately; I think.

“Are you a cultist? Tom said.

“No. I don’t even have a library card” I said.

I began fumbling at my wallet to prove the absence. My hands twitched in token accord, mashing gracelessly against the leather; the nails had grown tremendously. The wallet wouldn’t open.

Tom flopped onto the couch beside me; eyes racing along my seams and growing imperfections. He grinned.

“We need to get some girls over” Tom said.

I lieu of a proper intro I present you the best thing ever: The secret life of Julia Childs

That’s right, the 6′2 queen of French Cuisine was a WWII spy and saboteur, for the precursor of the CIA. It’s enough to make me dig up her husky bones and dance a waltz beneath the moonlight. Ah, granddame, your kind will not be seen again. Let’s get down to business.

*********

Are you this random a fucker in real life?

Dave

Yep. A brief sampling

-I told my girlfriend the Stinkenheim[1] museum had been broken into last night, and some kids had vandalized her exhibit. This information had been relayed to me via a telephone I keep hidden from her at all times. When she questioned the legitimacy (and fairness) of this phone call, I suggested her doubt was politically motivated, and an attempt to undermine my bid for a curator position.

-I generally download two torrents at once, in the hope their inherent competitiveness make both go faster. When it doesn’t work I engage in grizzly boxing trainer type trash talk to whichever one is lagging (ala “you’re a bum, Rock”).

-When people resist my charm I take it as direct challenge to my worth as a person. I spent three weeks half courting a cashier at my grocery store, because she didn’t react to an off hand glib comment I made while purchasing lunch meat. I suspect she’s now planning to ask me out, so I’ve taken to shopping at night to avoid the awkward exchange I clearly precipitated.

******

Any life lesson gained from your search for employment?

Duisel,

Oxnard, CA

The big one: baby, the road to purgatory is paved with non-decisions, and it’s a long walk back. I’m not big on borrowing others words, but this is best expressed in song.

Check it: Brian Wilson

It turns out when you coast; you drift, so now I’m in process of acquiring direction…shaking down my Bohemian tendancies to sort out bad habits and old excuses. It’s humbling, but progress is being made.

******

Poppa AJ, I cannot sleep. Please provide some bedtime storyage.

Serena Bambino

The other side of town

Ok.

So there’s this Bear in the woods. Real mean fucker, with one leg twice as long as the others. I don’t know if the one leg was real long, or the other three real short ( I never met the guy), but there was a distinct lack of symmetry. Anyways, this bear (name of Tree Stump Charlie) goes around all-day just choking the hell out of whatever he can get his mismatched legs around. Fucking Owls, goats, campers, didn’t matter: if he could catch it, he’d choke it…and he’d be crying the whole time, like he had no choice in the matter. Just the ugliest thing you ever saw.

This bear, he was real depressed right, so he decides to invest all his money in these high yield savings bonds, so he can retire in a few years, and spend his time talking to school kids about the cost of bullying. Only, it turns out, those high yield savings bonds were actually a rotted old log full of bees, which stung that bear to death!

Sleep well, Serena.

*****

[1] She actually smells quite pleasant. I just have a very juvenile sense of humor

The back wall of my apartment is predominantly window, about waist high from the parking lot outside. There is physical security, but only token separation from the world. Curtains exist, but are rarely in place, and the foot traffic is steady and curious. When I sleep, with windows open, passerby’s could spit on me, were they to choose so.

This should trouble me, yet there is a strange appeal to residing in a bachelor terrarium. The loss of anonymity is bracing. It’s like some bastard cousin to my writerly instinct delights in living life in clear view; forcing my personal minutia into a public context. A sort of Proustian, performance art, blogging.

There is an implied challenge to not deviate my behavior in the face of discovery. I spent 20 minutes yesterday adding jug solos to my favorite bluegrass tracks. I sat there in plain sight, underwear clad, blowing enthusiastically into an oversized wine bottle…badly out of time with the accompanying music. There were at least three witnesses to the display. I have no illusions to the quality of response it provoked, but the notion of my identity geminating in a strangers mind is gratifying: the myth of naked jug band guy filtering its way through the city. I need to hit the gym.

(Continued from :How do I make the ladies love me, part 1)

Step 4: Make a move

If you want proceed past the tingly acquaintance phase you need to make a move at some point. Cringing hopefully in the corner of a lady friend’s life won’t get you laid, and it won’t get you loved… it will give you a front row seat to emotional masochist theatre. I cannot emphasis this enough: don’t be that creepy friend, with a poorly concealed crush, who spends his days bad mouthing boyfriends and making angsty mixed tapes. Being an ultra supportive (duplicitous) friend doesn’t entitle you to love you wouldn’t risk the hit for. Devotion without disclosure is obsession. It’s is not romantic… it is a selfish, unhappy, deception.

What you should do:

Read the signs. People are self defeating assholes, that engage in retarded, defective, random behavior (to feed the thousand tiny mouths of conflicting desire). As such it can be difficult to properly suss out the intentional landscape of a prospective lady friend. Still, you can avoid an emotional paddling or two if you apply a little deductive due diligence.

Clear Signs she’s not interested (probably)

- Doesn’t flirt, and seems uncomfortable when you do

- Talks about other crushes around you

- Talks about her boyfriend

- Won’t touch you

- Avoid your calls/emails

Clear Signs she’s interested (probably):

- Get catty when you are around other women

- Wants to drink wine and watch movies at your apartments

- Does the old linger and trail after hugs

- Constantly talks about sex, and how good you’d likely be at it

Lay the groundwork. No matter its deliciousness, if you cram a sandwich down someone’s throat, they will not enjoy it. You need to seed a gradual awareness of your romantic interest; give them time to absorb and react to it in degrees. Tease it out; keep it uncertain enough there are little bursts of discovery and intrigue.

If you just drop the whole thing on their lap, and ask them to deal with it, it becomes an obligation…and that is not sexy. The move should be a culmination of your efforts and play, not the first step.

Don’t Flinch. Here’s the thing, kids, no matter how cool you’ve been, how clear you’ve seen, and how sweet you laid it down, six times out ten it is going to go badly. For all you try and pay it with flowers, gifts, and praise, the currency of love is pride…and there is no guarantee of service. That’s the deal: try and bruise, or hide and rot. There is no way around it. Someone is either worth the pain of exposure, or they are not.

After my first real taste of romantic woe I made an angsty claim:

I’m giving up love for basket weaving; less hurt, more baskets.

Pithy, perhaps, but a surrender to the smallest parts of my self. Fortunately my poor fine motor skills, and stubborn romantic spark, forced me from those wicker shores and back into the mix. I eventually took the hit, got the girl, and realized the ache of giving in far outstrips the pain of failure.

****

Continued in part 3: Closing the Deal, riding the wave, and Getting out of dodge.

(Note: Reposted as Part 2 will be coming out today-ish)

Last night a magic Elf came to me in my dreams; the Elf he said “AJ, People don’t know shit ‘bout nothing. You gotta help ‘em out.” And I was all like “Yeah all right, Elf.” When A.J. Valliant makes a promise, he keeps a promise, so I’m obligated to lay some solid knowledge on you, my children’s.

Since I only know like eights things, I figure I’ll start at the top of the pile and help you folks with the old biological imperative:

How do I make the ladies love me?

( I want to stress from the outset this isn’t a list of misogynistic tricks to persuade guileless females to fall into your clutches. People, in general, have trouble relating and managing interpersonal contact, so these are some approaches to try and bridge the social divide . Almost all of the advice is gender neutral, but since I have only ever experienced being a man trying to romantically engage a women, I’m going to hit it from that perspective. )

Let me preface this guide with the following caveat: Historically I appeal most strongly to three specific subgroups of Femanity:

Superficial ditzy chicks with daddy complexes

Rather clever, quirky, strong willed ladies that are mildly antisocial

Cool chicks that just want to get their rocks off

*note: there is significant overlap between the last two

As the vast majority of my romantic congress has occurred within these three groups, I cannot speak to the broader efficacy of the information I am about present: I figure it’s decent in most cases though. The one big exception is group D) Shallow, status conscious, high maintenance woman. Lets just say there is a mutual We are not each others cup of tea understanding in place, and leave it at that. Let’s get down to business.

Step 1: Know thy self

The first step in any sort of interpersonal congress is gaining meaningful and critical understanding of who you are, coming to peace with it, and learning to effectively project it. Confidence and style comes from awareness and acceptance. There are few things more compelling than someone who is distinctly of themselves, and makes no apology for it.

The thing to remember: this is an honest…critical…assessment. That means not just accepting your strengths and quirks, but acknowledging the flaws you hate, the decisions you are ashamed of, and the weaknesses that have fucked with you every day of your life.

For instance: I get to honestly put forth that I’m an engaging, immensely decent, clever mother fucker; but I also have to make peace with the fact I’m a petty, manipulative, egotistical prick that hides behind a martyr complex when things get tough. To deny any part of who you are means that anything you put forth is going to ring false, undermining meaningful connection.

Step 2: Have some respect

If you don’t have some respect for the person you’re engaging, you are not only hurting your chances of success, you are diminishing both of you regardless of the outcome. Respect covers a lot of ground, so for the purposes of this discussion it means:

Acknowledge the girl as an equal partner in whatever goal you have. One sided wooing is creepy, unappealing, and way more work than is necessary. When you respect that the other person has equal agency in the process it means they get to do half the work. You are not trying to win a prize, you are entering into a negotiation. Respect that they have their own desires and motivations that can play in concert with your own. Respect yourself enough to realize you are bringing equal value to the table, so you don’t need to be all guarded and conniving.

Even from a purely physical stand point, women still don’t need to be tricked into having sex. If you want to get laid, find a women within your league, who enjoys and wants to have sex, then tastefully put the notion forth. If you are patient and realistic about your appeal you will eventually find a willing partner. Be honest beforehand, attentive during, and discrete afterwards, and things will be a lot easier in the future.

Step 3: Be cool, brother

Here’s the thing: no matter how straight forward your intentions and affect are, there is still a degree of social manipulation and gamesmanship necessary in romantic engagement. As enlightened as we pretended to be, we are still products of the pack/herd, and certain behavioral responses are largely hardwired and culturally engineered into our development. The end result: that which is pursued retreats; anything readily attainable is devalued.

I’m not talking about jerking people around, or trying to undermine their self esteem. You are not out to break their will, you just want to pace things a little. Maintain an air mystique and challenge about you. In its ideal form that early vying for interest, and unveiling of identity, is fun and engaging for both people. It also gives you time to figure out just how interested you are in the other, without either party suffocating the life out of things. The specific points of interest break down like so:

Be polite, friendly, and engaged, while maintaining a degree of subtle aloofness. Make a real attempt to get a sense of them, but don’t gush or provide excessive uncritical praise. You are not trying to win them over, you are honestly trying to get to know them. Having genuine insight and awareness of a person is far more attractive than pronouncements of how awesome they are.

Just relax. You are not trying to sell anything, you are spending some time with a cool person. Chemistry will be there, or it won’t; you not going to talk someone into being attracted to you…but you can sure talk them out it. If you are too invested in any particular outcome it destroys that natural flow of interaction, and prevents any sort of connection from forming.

Have an edge. This one is a killer, since not that many people can pull it off. Ideally you are trying to show that you not an overly nice, ineffectual, best friend forever type…without coming across as insecure overcompensating asshole. Figure out how much of an alpha male you legitimately are, then express that within the parameters of your natural behavior. This is much easier if you have an inherent growl and swagger about you, but even a relative pansy can put forth the stronger parts of his core.

Continued in part 2:

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A week’s wandered by since my sudden change in employment status. Strange days my friends: strange days that glom and stretch together in an unpredictable fashion. I haven’t had a week off in five years. My brain doesn’t know how to process this much unbroken time. I feel like some hard case corporate recidivist given parole: after eight years of sharpening spoons and fighting off boardroom buggery I don’t know how to live on the outside. I keep trying to exchange cigarettes for extra prescription benefits.

That may have been an overstatement. Or a lie. The absence of structure, however, has been troubling. My brain doesn’t naturally apportion time well, and my attention expands to fill the allowable space…becoming dissolute in the process. While I’ve carefully managed my internal world, the outer shape of my life has always been defined by obligations I’ve been under. Without that external pressure things have become a little formless.

To cope I drink a lot of tea. Like, crackhead amounts of tea. The agitation fills me with a jittery sort of purpose…a sense of forward momentum. Drink enough tea and you can watch CNN for hours without remorse. I’ve half convinced myself I’m in the late stages of interviewing for a gig as Obama’s speech writer. I mouth inspirational words at the T.V. and feel triumphant when he echoes my talking points. While unquestionably deranged, it’s more prestigious than my former pretend job as a Liberty City bounty hunter [1]. I need to get out of the house.

Tomorrow I acquire my severance riches, and try and track down my Psych degree. I suspect this will move things in a more productive direction. I’ll keep you posted.

[1] Mostly I just went around murdering cab drivers…which is really more vigilantism, than bounty hunting proper. Though, I still consider it a public service. Time to give the Jewish lass my X-Box for a while.

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It’s been a long week. No intro today. Lets get down to business.

*****

What would the moral implications of eating a “My Little Pony” be? Assuming they were real. Is it worse than eating a Dolphin? Than punching a Unicorn in the face? Making love to a Teddy Ruxpin doll you’d implanted with a recording begging you to stop?

Davos in Chicago

That’s a tough question, Davos. It asks what obligation do we have to other species? How much weight, if any, sentience/intelligence plays in that obligation? And why Teddy would dress like that if he didn’t want us to take a voyage on his magical airship?

I’m going to need to bust out a mini assessment scale to provide some clarity on this issue.

Beats Entropy, Mythical discourtesy scale:

1. Rogering Teddy. Despite his protests.

2. Making a Lemur wear a chinchilla coat to a weasel convention

3. Informing a Barba-Poppa it looks like a nutsack

4. Punching a Unicorn in the face

5. Placing used chewing gum in Jehovas beard

6. Eating a My Little Pony (likely Sundance) [1]

7. Setting fire to Oscar the Grouch’s trashcan, without first removing Slimey.

8. Using Pippi Longstocking’s invisible bike in a drive-by-shooting.

9. Whoring a Who down in Whoville.

10. Filling Thomas the Tank Engine with Sarin nerve gas during the lunch hour rush.

(1): Extra points if you eat Meghan as well.

*********

I have incurable bone cancer. It would comfort me greatly to know what the next world holds for me. I realize religious guidance is not your providence, but you’re only person I trust to give me a straight answer.

Zephyr Grimm.

Zeph, I don’t even know what this world holds…for me…today. And I’m cool with that. Foreknowledge, for the most part, is worthless: it does nothing but build anxiety, and bleed down experience. If I had to guess (what comes next) I’d say dissolution and ease over comes us. That we soften into the background, and very broad answers are remembered. The only comfort, I imagine, is that which we release. It’s not the worst deal.

*********

How come you don’t put poetry up on the site anymore?

Jessica Lang

Well, Jessica, there are a couple reasons:

1) It feels hypocritical. While I enjoy writing it, I’ve joined passing pro life mobs to avoid reading other peoples compositions. I respect the medium in an abstract sense, but the end product tend to be so insular, and self indulgent/referential, that it feels more like bland voyeurism than real artistic engagement. (With the odd rare exception) it’s on par with browsing through someone else’s scrapbook, or blog[1].<— And that’s the competent poetry: an incredibly rare subspecies in the poetry phylum.

Bad poetry. Man, I’d rather be double teamed by leprous armadillos than slog my way through other people’s bad poetry. It’s like trying to kiss an ugly baby: you just want to smother and shake it, put it out of its misery, but you can’t…since everyone is watching.

2) I only write poetry when I’m wooing or freshly broken up. Strip me of my libido, I’d be writing model airplane instructions, and stern letters to city councilmen. Yet, once those pheromones hit, the metre starts to flow, and simple statements fold into artful convolutions. It’s a disease really: some flaw in the Celtic genome taking the place of proper judgment.

The breakup stuff, while even more unbearable, is about providing context and closure. Pulling unwieldy feelings into an arena that offers apparent resolution.

[1] And yes, this is clearly hypocritical as well.

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Like all break ups, I expected it…but I was off on the timing. My surreally brief decade [1 ] of corporate employment ended in quiet conversation, Tuesday morning. It was a cool, form letter, discussion on their part. A bemused and grinning one on mine. They weren’t allowed to discuss their motivation, beyond informing me, repeatedly, it was a “business decision”. That’s akin to answering “Why are you hitting me?” with “My arms make the bat go down”: accurate, but willfully obtuse.

To their credit they gave me a big thing of riches, and let me gather my posessions without taunts or tasering. They even laughed when I had to retrieve my shoes and sock from under the desk (yes I was laid off barefoot). Security seemed thrown by how relaxed and upbeat I was. Also: I kept assuring them “I’m not reaching for my gun” whenever I rifled through a desk drawer. They asked me if I actually had a gun….I replied “what caliber counts as a gun?”. They were less amused by this. I said my goodbyes, stole my lucky mug, and left the only real job I’ve ever had.

I should be concerned. I have no proper skills. I was only qualified for my old job by default, and I have no intention of returning to that world. Yet, I am not. I feel released. I’ve been freed from excuses and obligations and intend to make the most it. More to come on this late breaking story as information comes in.

[1] It was actually around eights years…but that reads a little sloppy.

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(CONTINUED FROM PART 1 and PART 2 ;Continued in PART 4)

There are three kinds of friends: false, true, and products of circumstance. I’ve only ever had the patience for the third; easy, extinguishable, bonds of mild consideration. This is no slight on my friends (though they are, by and large, terrible people), just a hitch in my perception: I don’t see the point. Situations are fluid, and I… am a man of questionable buoyancy. I’ve contested that notion in the past. Unsuccessfully.

Tom found me on the steps. I‘d been there a time. He was as drunk as he thought I. Still, he hauled me into the living room of our shared apartment with comedic efficiency. He then made an egg (left in the pan), drank a gallon of water, and came to rest in approximately the same heap I occupied. He slept; my mind wandered in slow convolutions.

“Dave. Dave. Dave.”

A hard flick between my eyes accompanied each Dave.

“Dave.”

Flick.

I opened my eyes. Tom flicked me again on general principle.

“Are you all right? You don’t have a pulse” said Tom.

Tom lacked a certain ironic capacity.

“I don’t see how I could be” I said. My voice clanged like an ugly tape recording.

Tom sat, absorbing the information. Several minutes passed. He began poking my chest with a ladle he’d found on the floor.

“You’re not breathing” said Tom.

He had a point. I wasn’t.

“I think I’m dead” I offered.

———————————-

Tom considered this for a very long time.

“Should I call someone” said Tom.

It was tempting, but I needed to think this through.

“No real point, I suppose” I said.

Tom put down the phone, relieved. Reams of hypothetical paperwork fluttered from his shoulders; tedious doves taking flight. Should I have seen that? Tom lit a tightly rolled joint; he claimed it helped him think. There was limited evidence to support that conclusion. He did, however, possess the coping skills of a defeatist Buddha…so there was something to the practice.

“Does it hurt” asked Tom.

“Not really” I said.

It didn’t. Not exactly.

“What does it feel like” asked Tom.

I’d been trying to put a taste to it all night. It was a hard thing to contextualize: this blurry absence of sensation…like Winter asked me to hold its coat, punched me in the stomach, then ditched me at an bad acid party thrown by Charlie browns teacher.”

“Its cold and I’m tired” I said.

Something in my throat tore mid description, giving the last few words a guttural warble. Tom stared with sick fascination.

***

Continued in PART 4

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 The prestige of having been employed in the same entry level job for seven years (without promotion) has lead many of our readers to seek my advice in career matters[1]. Traditionally, I answer via private correspondence (mostly with biting personal commentary and ugly sexual innuendo), but a recent wave of joblessness among my cohort has convinced to disseminate my wisdom in a more public fashion.

  As my expertise is largely rooted in matters rhetorical, I will approach the topic as such. My time in the business world has taught me exactly one thing: context in more important than content. Being able to frame information in a self-constructive fashion is the entirety of the battle; master the spin, and you win.

      Thus I give you Ask BE: What should I say in a job interview

null

***

The Statement: I’m not afraid to cut a nigga if he gets too close!

  While this assertion could potentially establish your stret cred, your interviewer is unlikely to draw any positive inference from it. Additionally: if the interviewer does haphazardly wander too close…you will need to cut him, or risk losing any previously accrued street credentials[2].

 How you should couch it: I have a strong commitment to personal space, and am a highly motivated self starter (with a strong appreciation for the importance of reputation).

 ***

 Educational Wherewithal: I am wholly illiterate. This is a conscious choice, that I have made at great personal cost. 

 The reading world is unkind to the brave, mi compadre. Incomprehensible forms are presented, signatures demanded, and pictographic resumes rejected out of hand. Fortunately, the higher up you go in the corporate world, the more literacy becomes a liability: Complete sentences, proper syntax, and using one metaphor at a time are the province of lesser men…forced into coherence by their low station in life.  

 A proper obfuscation: I’m a big idea guy…a do’er who doesn’t waste his time on navel gazing. I delegate effectively to remained focused on high concept execution.

  ***

The admission: I got fired from my last job for sexually assailing, like…three coworkers. But at least two of them clearly wanted it.

  A hard pill to swallow, indeed. This is a classic case of providing too much information, and applying value judgements where none are needed. Let the courts decide who was in the wrong: your job is to sell your product. You.

 A more refined sentiment:  In my last position I took on additional unpaid management duties, that created some friction amongst my co-workers. In hindsight more effective communication skills would have smoothed the transition.

 ***

 Matters of Health: I got hit with the Dim Mak touch a couple years back…so I’ll likely be taking a lot of sick leave.

 Health issues can raise all sorts of red flags in a prospective employer. Try and downplay the debilitative impact of your condition, while emphasising the benefits.

 How to Frame it: Instead of mentioning your lack of positive Ki, emphasis your abundance of negative Ki. Explain how you may die and become a Revenant…perhaps one driven to work extremely hard, for a limited wage.

 ***

 The freestyle portion of the interview:

 My rage is ringing like a phone, bitch you better answer

My life is full of pain, like your wife is full of cancer

 A little hostile, but you’re on the right track. Rapping, along with collating and synergizing, form the core triumvirate of effective office management.

 An Alternate flow:

 I am assertive and capable, in a straight forth manner

I always meet my deadlines, as I am a effective planner

I’m sorry to hear about your wife

 ***

 The Situation: The King of all Centaurs is my sworn enemy. There will be attacks; some to kill, some to capture. Mostly during office hours. The dead will be the fortunate ones.

 While it is not uncommon to have unresolved obligations from past employment, it is important to inform potential employers of any pre-existing scheduling conflicts. You are not well served, however, disclosing past acrimony that might cast you in a negative light.

  A more optimistic interpretation:

   Past cultural exchanges have allowed me to form strong, if complex, relationships with non traditional markets. This will almost certainly facilitate a variety of networking opportunities, for myself, and my coworkers…possibly leading to extended placement in outside positions.

 ********

 [1] Our readers are as lacking in judgement, as they are to soon be gainful employment.

 [2]: And who knows, he may be quick with a blade himself. What a terrible outcome it would be to lose a potential employment opportunity and the better part of your spleen.

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 I moved again. This will be my 14th home in the past ten years. There are murderous drifters that maintain a more static address. Mind, every house has been within an eight block radius: more pacing, I suppose, than wandering proper. I’m not sure if it’s boredom with status quo that drives me, or just a delayed awareness of a poor initial choice…repeatedly. 

 I left my couch, entertainment unit, and air conditioner behind. There was no specific grudge[1]: they had just outlived there usefulness. I also discarded a poorly funded library’s worth of books, three quarters of my dishes, and the clothes of a smaller man of questionable taste. It took 40 minutes to pack the truck, and 20 to unload it. My life takes an hour to transport. I am unsure how to feel about that. The movers charged me an extra hour for the time it may have taken them to get to my house. This seems unfair, but my friends assure that sort of hypothetical billing is the norm.

 After the fact I realized I had failed to transport my cat. The Jewish lass lent a cat carrier that was laughably undervolumed for the task. Felica’s girth required it be disassembled, then reassembled around her… the sort of accommodation normally reserved for vast tunnel borers, or the relocation of antique houses. The walk home tested the limits of my will, and the ligaments in my shoulders. She seemed to be pulling nutrients directly from the air; spitefully increasing her mass with every step. It was a long walk.

  Halfway home the ache and empty streets left me feeling inexplicably like the Incredible Hulk.   

 The new place is cool. High ceilings, big square rooms, no Chud cave. A pianist lives in the apartment above me: I feel like I need to start doing classier things so I can better suit my soundtrack. My bathroom is gleaming and tiled, with the acoustics of a room five times it’s size. I am beginning to suspect this apartment was intended for someone with a deeper appreciation of community theatre.

   Unpacking will come in it’s own time.

 ****

[1] This is untrue in the couches case. It was a incremental betrayer of the highest order, failing to fulfill the most basic tenants of couchdom.

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