s T R e am # 4 9

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You want to say things that you believe would help clarify the situation. But you feel that actions speak louder than words, because they do. So you wait. And it appears that inaction, actually, will speak louder than, perhaps, anything else. But who is to blame? You are at least partly to blame. But only partly. It takes two to tango. (Christ, how many trite idioms are we going to go for today, eh?) You are not the one who should think about the times that you don’t want to behave when the situation was false and the lawnmowers won’t FUCKING SHUT UP! Let the grass grow. No, don’t. Yes, let it grow, but only up to a certain height. Christ, just let me buy a lawnmower so that I can do it myself on my own schedule and not have to deal with all the fucking noise. But then the same mowers cut the grass next door, too. This is why winter is the best season for writing. NO FUCKING EXTERIOR NOISE!!! Although – and I AM aware that I’ve mentioned most of this before – autumn is my favorite season. The colors. That is, of course, the colors of the dying leaves. Is death ever so attractive? I think not. And the cooler weather allows me to don my jeans and my leather coat. As hard as I exercise, and as much protein as I consume, the muscle mass still does not accumulate. But I AM thinner. And, thus, I’ll look tougher in my jeans and in my leather. But this is not news. Not if you’ve been paying attention. But you’re probably new here. And you’ll read this, if you’ve gotten this far, never to return. Even if you haven’t read this far, you’re not likely ever to return. Why would you? It’s nothing of consequence. Hey, at least I’m being honest. It’s not that I don’t want to treat you to a nice pillow, it’s that you’ll drool all over it. And I cannot tolerate drool, which is why I cannot tolerate most infants. Most parents, whilst parenting, particularly whilst parenting in public, do not appear to be happy. And what parent would confess to anybody that they’d rather not be a parent? WHO COULD GET AWAY WITH SUCH A CONFESSION? Nobody, I’d wager. Damn near nobody. I couldn’t. I don’t want to treat you to the mean man’s nasty nose. Why? Because it’s full of boogers. It is! You don’t believe me, do you? Why don’t you believe me? What have I done to make you believe that I am not believable? I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about before and after. After comes after I’ve reached the bottom of this page. Before, well, do I really need to explain that? No, I don’t think I do. But, in any case, I am willing to explain my need to fart in the wilderness. But not now. There isn’t enough space. Nevertheless, I’ve been known to do it. That’s right, I’ll pull down my pants, upon finding the largest tree, and fart at it. ON it. AT it. No, in sooth, I’ve never done that. The thought only crossed my mind seconds – no, moments go. No, SECONDS. No, MOMENTS. And I have, actually. Farted. At/on forest trees, that is. No, I haven’t. Yes. No. But I HAVE – and this is The Truth, So Help Me, God – run across the Dartmouth Campus clad only in my tightie-whities (sp?). Not alone, mind you, not alone. And after that, I pulled them, the whitie-tighties (sp?), down for the girls (they’d been expecting us); and said girls raised their little disposable cameras, and they snapped photos of us with our respective “family jewels” flapping in the wind, in front of that statue of naked dudes, which may or may not be on the Dartmouth Campus. Again, just to be clear, I was not alone in this. It was a very loosely organized event. The very next day, one of the smoking chicks in the smoking room* said, with me standing right there beside her, she said, “I can’t believe I saw [REDACTED] naked.” I remained silent. Were I truly brave, I’d’ve replied with, “Would you like to see him naked again?” Because everybody, or seemingly everybody, was having sex... save for me. But I wasn’t there for sex. No, I was there to “hone” my “craft.” IDIOT. Why can’t sex be a component of “honing,” eh? Dumb-ass. Anyway, I had a painful crush on somebody else. They’re always painful, them crushes. And they never get me anywhere – save for thinner, or fatter. Bottom (and then some) reached.    

25 July 2008

*[Although I do not smoke cigarettes, I have found myself in the company of smokers. Back then, many thespians smoked.]

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