S T R E A M # 2 6

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That was better than sex. Okay, okay, it’s been so long, perhaps I’ve forgotten just how good sex is. But this will do. Yeah, sure, what the hey, I’d go celibate the rest of my life if you could guarantee me a place behind a microphone for the next fifty-odd years. Oh, and, I’ll also need a real good pair of hearing aids. Yes, and I’ll probably need them inside of the next five years. My body breaks out when I sweat as much as I’ve been sweating. Currently, I’ve got a painful zit over my sternum. I think that’s my sternum. We’re talking the lower part of the sternum—if that’s what it is. The sweating, it’s not from sex (unfortunately), it’s from running the treadmill. And, tonight—of course tonight—I’m supposed to go to this singles thing. And you never know. Drunk, single, dancing women? You never know. Anything’s possible. Right? Right. But I wouldn’t want to get into a position where I’d have to take off my shirt. That said, I’m fairly pleased with the way my torso looks right now—save for the zits. If I found myself in a situation that required me to bare my chest (et cetera), it’d have to happen in the dark. Curiously, in the past, when I’ve had sex, it wasn’t typically carried out in the dark—even when I’ve gotten lucky at night. Light always emanated from somewhere. And it wasn’t like I planned it that way. On the other hand, I prefer to see what I’m doing. Helps with the aim. While driving in the dark (sans headlights) might be a thrill, it is undoubtably reckless. My apologies: Much like yesterday’s Stream, this one does not qualify as a true Stream. It’s too consciously contrived. I’ve gotta crank it out. But then I start thinking about animals. Like I want to write about a dog or a cat or a cow or a horse or a cantaloupe or a peach or a cherry. The cat is not at home right now, would you like to leave a message? Please, the cat loves to receive messages. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR THE DAMNNED CAT. He meows about it all day. He’s jealous that you leave messages for me and you don’t leave messages for him. (Or her.) (I haven’t checked. Does it matter? It’s a cat.) Tell me, please, I implore you: What, exactly, is the problem? Are you allergic to cats? Really? ALL OF A SUDDEN? You weren’t allergic last week! You were here, petting the cat. The cat was purring. What went wrong? Golly, that cat’s gonna be sad. Just leave a bloody message. Just tell the cat that you’ll swing by to pet him/her/it just as soon as you are bloody able. Please. Why not? You “don’t want to lie to the cat”? You’ve always been honest with the cat? Oh, please. My God! Come on! Like the cat understands English. Like the cat understands anything other than meow-ese. You can tell the cat to piss off and it wouldn’t know the difference. That is, so long as you say, in a sweet tone, “Piss off, cat.” If, on the other hand, you say, “Piss off, cat,” like you truly mean it, well, yeah, the cat’ll know. You’ll scare it off. The truth, of course, is that there IS no cat. Not here! You, my friend, have the wrong number! Jesus! You are such a sap. Waste all this time calling me, a perfect stranger, about a cat you want to break it off with. Ha! Anyway, bottom reached. 
20 June 2008

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