Times have been good and bad to me. I'm not sure whether that makes them simply indifferent, but the balance is pleasing nonetheless. The good manifested itself most recently in the form of a relative stranger, who sat rather near me on a train. Now, I'm not one to start conversations with strangers for no good reason, but here, I thought, I had one.
"Why wake?" I asked suddenly. (One of those rare occasions where the brain tricks the mouth into speaking without properly presenting its case first.)
"Excuse me?" The gaze was indignant. He had funny eyes.
"Just, you know — why?"
"Why?"
"Yes — why?"
"I'm getting off soon," he said, turning away.
I shrugged. The next stop passed and we were both still there.
"Do you have girlfriends or what?"
He glared at me. I tried to look as genuine as I thought I was being.
"No," he enunciated coldly, still glaring.
"See that's what I mean."
After seemingly wishing me dead, he turned away again.
"Actually, you've probably got more of an advantage when it comes to meeting people," I continued.
"That's ridiculous," he snapped back.
"I'm not shitting you, man. That heart-string appeal really flips the birds. You should be up to your neck in pussy."
"Well, I'm not," he said, welling.
I made my eyebrows an arch of sympathy and started again.
"Look, I ain't messing with you. I'm just curious." I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
"It's not all about sex," he said sourly.
"No, of course not," I agreed. "Walking along a beach with a loved one on a starry night: that's what it's about, man. Frolicking in the fields, rolling in the greens, wandering aimlessly. All that shit."
The train stopped.
"Since when was life about walking?" he called out as he wheeled off onto the platform and disappeared.
"Frolicking," I said to myself. "Life's about frolicking."
I suppose he could roll into a meadow and tip himself over, but it wouldn't be quite the same. Still, he'd made this wholly functioning man cherish his blessings, and that's got to be worth something.
Tempted though I was, I did not frolic on the way home, nor did I navigate through any sort of field or meadow. I did, however, fix myself one bitching cup of black coffee. Standing by the sink and enjoying every lick, I conceded that this pleasure was open to him, too. And that's worth something. Probably wouldn't get the view, though.
Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
-
The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
37 comments:
And back onto the sex thing.
To be fair, this was rather shoddily concocted from old scraps and was soon to be cut down a tad.
(Although obviously you're still right.)
The stranger probably went home and plagiarized some of your material in his RSVP profile.
"I like...
Walking along a beach with a loved one on a starry night. Frolicking in the fields, rolling in the greens."
He might get some.
Depends how much of his lower half is out of action, really.
Incidentally, you'll find this apparantly true post entirely appropriate. In reality, it's not as harsh as it may seem. I was taken aback myself, but I can vouch for the guy.
Indeed it is (entirely appropriate).
Does the word "apparently" carry any more weight than "allegedly"?
In an attempt to find out, I came across this profile. Maybe it really is true.
It is most certainly true, yes. He's a devastatingly candid blogger, and deserves distinction for rendering fact in such a way that you're always surprised that it's more or less entirely true. It's candid not as an end it self, but as a non-fussed given, which is a very rare thing.
Wow. Rare enough that the natural reaction is to assume it's made up. Or vastly exaggerated.
Michael hasn't posted a follow-up...is that a good or bad sign?
It's not a sign at all. He only drifts in.
But it does have an antecedent that is, I think, even more devastating. This time I recommend overlooking the dicey, sort-of-thing-you-say-to-your-friends-but-don't-post rape jokes at the start.
Incidentally, as I know him well, this feels rather odd to discuss. But hey, it is publicity. And it was published.
I think Harry has shown me that entry before. The rape joke pales in comparison to the girl's response. Awful!
Anyway, we'd better wrap up this discussion of your friend. I hope it all works out for him.
Now let's discuss Harry.
OK, where do we start? :p
His eyes.
What about them? Remember I've never met the guy.
Whatever you can deduce from the lens-obscured photo on this very page.
He has a, err, penetrating gaze?
Must spare him a great deal of excess exertion.
Don't forget the rugged looks and hollywood smile.
I'd say more flubby than rugged.
Let's discuss the photo of that "superlative" Hugh fellow instead...
Looks like a barber shop urchin found some glue.
Good point. I was thinking "Colombian drug lord". :p
Imaginary French dock worker?
Yep, his friends call him Groucho.
No, his friends call him Jambes.
What about Hugh the Jamón?
Translated, it does account for the first syllable of my surname.
Hmm. I think that's the limit of my uncanny psychic abilities. :p
Oh, come on, only two more syllables to go.
Wait, don't tell me! There's a connection with... *theatrically kneads her temples with her fingertips* Paradise Lost.
Bingo. Hugh Wilkie Bingo for long.
Ha! Perhaps I missed my true calling.
For my next trick...
Yes?
It'll have to wait. Ethanol is presently interfering with the psychic energies.
Nonsense. It's lubricant for the mind. Makes everything nice and clear and psychic.
A lubricant, yes, and rather nice. Makes my mind fuzzy though.
"Psychic" in a misleading and very particular way.
36. Boy. An unsuspecting (non-psychic) visitor might get the impression I have readers — rather than simply impending essays. What an interesting prospect.
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