display | more...
Watching her get dumped again... Will she ever learn?

Signs point to no.

And so I get that same head crying on my shoulder once more. Like all of life's more beautiful cycles, this has come before, and will come again. This time however, a poem uses my hand to write itself on a napkin. Seems worth saving, somehow. Give it to her later on, and she smiles. If you make them smile, it was worth it. Smiles are contagious, and shortly we're both in better moods. It strikes me as fitting, somehow, that words should hold so much power where more concrete things have failed miserably. Maybe all that crap about penis mightiers had some substance to it, after all.

Dead Roses

Sleep offers no peace to bloodshot eyes
tears turn to streams, and streams to puddles
she lies on her bed, bleary eyes on the door
as a shrine of dead roses lies on the floor.

It has been three days since last he called
three more since he said goodbye
her eyes grow red as her heart grows sore
and a shrine of dead roses lies on the floor.

Why do we see it to be so fit
to celebrate life with something so fleeting?
she now hates what she used to adore
that shrine of dead roses that lies on the floor.

Petals shrivel up and fall to the ground
like so many wrinkled red memories
he was her hero, and she was his whore
and the roses he gave her now die on the floor.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

That's how I almost got into a fight this afternoon. I wasn't looking for trouble, and indeed I wasn't even looking at this 250 pound redneck when he asked that rather provocative question. The only thing I was looking for was some Dentyne Ice to get the aroma of pizza from my breath. Not that I have a problem with pizza breath - but I had a meeting soon after and I'd rather have minty than meaty breath when dealing with people I'm trying to get money from.

But that's well away from the point.

So I stroll up to the convenience store across the street, and there's this '97 Mustang GT sitting there. Pretty car, but the owner of this piece of machinery was an unbelievable asshole who had his music blaring at an incredible volume for the sole purpose, I believe, of landing him a nice fight.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

The correct answer to this question is not "You", should you happen to want to avoid a fight. It will be quickly followed with "What's your problem?" and there really is no correct answer for that question. If you get right down to it, when someone asks you "What's your problem?" chances are, things have already progressed beyond "nothing".

I have two things against me at this point.

First, I'm a big man. I'm no Michael Clarke Duncan by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm pretty big compared to the majority of men you'll meet in your daily runnings around. Unless you happen to be employed by WWF or work in the Big and Tall section of J.C. Penny's. This is not a problem in itself - it affords me advantages that the shorter folk do not possess - however, I am often the target of Napoleon Complexes. On top of that, I get no special treatment from other large men who generally pick on someone their own size.

Secondly, I have a big mouth. 'Nuff said.

So you can see, I don't fare too well, when someone starts off a conversation with "What the fuck are you looking at?".

Without getting into a whole play-by-play, which will end up sounding like the Fuck You Clown story, I'll just say that I did manage to avoid fighting though the use of some lip service. I asked him why he cared if I look at him, and his answer ran along the lines of, "I don't like people eye-fuckin' me".

To which I responded, "So, then, you keep the radio in your car turned up that loud to draw attention away from yourself?"

To which he responded, "Huh?"

"If you don't like being looked at, why are you doing something that attracts attention to you?"

And that's where it starts to sound like "The Fuck You Clown story". Anyway, I went into the store and he drove away.

I think I could have kicked his ass though.
Hmm. Yesterday Poetry.com sent me a letter saying my poem has been entered into their book. It looks like I will be (once again) published! I am also eligible for the grand prize, yadda yadda yadda, but probably only if I pre-order a thousand books. Check out my poem at a previously noded place here.

I still haven't quit my job. My job sucks so much, but... I think my boss knows I want to quit. He's giving me a cell phone, yesterday I got an even bigger office than I had before, and within a month I might get exclusive use of the company car. I also get a title upgrade from "Executive Assistant" to "General Manager."

Though my job is bad for my health, and my wallet, and my future careers, these small material labels are enticing me to stay.

The new job I had lined up at an airplane hanger doing maintenance half-fell through. He was supposed to contact me a week ago but he's "a little busy" and will call me back ASAP. That was 5 days ago.

I wish I was a teenager so I could partake in some good old fashioned teen angst.

Travels in Rome

I'm sitting here in EasyEverything in Rome, EasterBunny asleep in the baby backpack beside me. Our much-anticipated holiday has arrived at last, and I am overwhelmed by noistalgia.

It was always going to be a nostalgic trip. Sunpig and I have been to Rome together twice before, and we love it dearly. The narrow cobbled streets in the Centro Storico, leading to the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona, are perfect for slow, thoughtful rambles. We've done a lot of meandering through them since we arrived on Sunday, with the baby in the backpack.

But the feeling that we've been here before predates that. It came on us even before we arrived at our pensione just off the Piazza di Spagna, which we know from previous stays. No, that feeling of deja vu hit us in the airport, when our baggage failed to arrive on the carosel.

Last time we were here, sunpig's bag never arrived. It was stuck in Heathrow, and he wore new-bought clothes the whole time. This time, we bought only enough to last us a single day (though, with a one-year old, that comes to quite a lot). And our bags appeared the next afternoon! Then we were into the good nostalgia.

  • The Spanish Steps at sunset, crowded with flowers and backpackers
  • Breakfast in a café...un capuccino, una Coca Cola Light, e tre cornetti, per favore
  • The Forum Romanum, heavy with the ages
  • The Pantheon, still my favourite building anywhere

And the new memories, not yet nostalgic:

  • The way all Romans, men and women of all ages, love a baby. They flirt with the Bunny, and he flirts back
  • Using the Euros we obtained in Dublin in January. So easy!
  • Gelato on a baby's shirt, dust from the Forum Romanum on his knees, and pasta sauce on his face

Gotta go. The baby's waking, and we need to get back to the pensione to get ready for dinner.



Boy, I haven't done this daylog thing in a while..

Wappu kicks ass.

Sure, I'm an unemployed loser sitting at home wasting time on a pointless and evil web site while everyone I know is out having fun and getting wasted. But screw them. I've got weed, sima and plenty of colorful balloons. Yay.

Getting downsized sucked though, there's no point in denying that. Not counting the guys who founded the firm, I had worked there for the longest. I was also the only full-time employee who was skilled in certain areas the company will certainly need in the future as well.. Then again, they had to kick out a certain amount of people and I was an obvious choice. They knew I was applying for an university later on this year, which meant I was half way out the door already. Furthermore, I don't have a family to support, which unfortunately isn't something I can say about some others who got the boot. Things could be worse - I've got savings and things are looking good for the entrance exams. Who knows, maybe in a year from now I'll be celebrating wappu in Oulu...

Time to have a joint, play some music and chill out. Come to think of it, not being downtown trying to get alcohol poisoning might not be such a negative thing after all.

To be continued.

Today is my birthday. My nineteenth. What a useless age 19 is - as my friend describes it "the birthday you get older, but nothing else."

I'm still a teenager. I still can't legally drink alcohol. I could already smoke and have sex with old people and see rated "R" and "NC-17" movies.

Next year I'll be twenty, which is scary. Last year I was eighteen, which was also scary. But this year - neither. I'm just boring old unfrightening me.

its not your fault, mom.
its not.
(don't let him tell you it is.)

i'm so tired of my dad. his crankiness, his hostility.
why blame my mom for the fact that we don't have any money? why blame me?

i can't get over the fact
that i drank sour milk all last week,
and josh had to bring me sandwiches
for lunch every day at school.
no, kelly - i'm adjusting fine -
but he always has his cigarettes and pepsi.

i wish i could make it all okay.

The caulk gun stuck in my mailbox should have been a clue. I figured my ex-girlfriend had dropped it off. She knows i'm working on my house. But I started to get really suspicious when I saw the back door open.

My cats are in. Good. Breathed another sigh of relief when I spotted my guitar, safe on its stand. But where is the right speaker?

I'd been robbed. Stereo gone, right down to the big custom speaker wires. Amp, Pre-Amp DVD Audio player, laserdisc, VCR, Cassette, Tuner and the left speaker. All gone. About six thousand dollars worth of stuff. I headed to the office. No more Powerbook, though my partly disassembled 8500 had been left.. But they took my 35mm cameras, both of them. Second time I’ve lost a camera to thieves. I just stood stunned, for a moment.

It has been a bad couple of weeks. Two weeks ago my girlfriend left me for someone else. The next day someone broke into the toolbox on the back of my truck, which left me tool less come Monday morning. Now this.

When you're robbed, you feel violated. This was my home, my space in the world, my castle. Home is your inner sanctum, the place you retreat to when the world around you gets crazy. And my world was crazy. Getting dumped right when I was starting to think serious would set anyone back. And I'd just had my truck robbed. Now my home had been invaded! I was spaced for a time, and the cop who came had to calm me and slow me down. I mean the guy stopped to eat peanut butter in my kitchen. Peanut butter!

Yet, it could have been much worse. And not just because they'd left my TV, power tools and guitars behind, the cases strewn across my bed. These are just things, replaceable things. I have a decent job. I have insurance. It will be a pain in the ass, but every thing will get replaced in time. Upgraded perhaps. As an audiophile, I'll probably enjoy shopping for a new stereo. I’d planned to sell this house anyway, and get a better one. One with fewer boommobiles passing by. My cats are safe, and happy to see me.

At the end, the thing that hurt the most was the girlfriend. Partly because I know I contributed to the breakup. I kept my shields up to high, too long. Maybe if I’d let down my guard earlier . . . You can't predict such things, but can't get escape the feeling that I failed.

She’s a good person, and we’ll stay friends. But from now on she belongs to someone else. We’ll say hi now and then, but the sharing and intimacy are done.

But in the end, I can replace every single thing that was stolen. I can’t replace her. Lovers come and go. Perhaps the next one will be for a lifetime. Probably not. Each person in your life brings something unique and special. I’ll miss my stereo only until I set up the new one.

I think I’ll miss this woman always.

The policeman told me the peanut butter bit was typical. He told me that he'd seen burglars who had cooked entire meals and taken a shower during the course of a burglary. Crime is strange.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.