Milo

"I'm all about groovin' with a hot mama, and then tying her up with some leather and shoe strings and teaching her a lesson in the name of Jazz, if you know what I mean. I ain't talking 'bout charlie parker, But I ain't not talking bout him neither, ya dig?" (Milo)

Pigeon Shit

So I think I may have answered the phone this morning and I think I may have been told by the sergeant at the other end of the line that there was some sort of formation at some point in the future.  I think he said I had to be there and I think he knows that I work nights.  But it was all so hazy and surreal that I'm not sure if what I think can be trusted any more.  If, in fact, I did get this call this morning I think they expect me to be there.  Thing is I don't think I can recall the time or the place.  I think I could get in trouble for not going and I think I don't really care.  Who knows what lay in these thoughts of mine these days?  My judgments and conceptions of reality have been askew since my days have begun at sunset. 

The other day I think I heard two pigeons having sex outside my window.  I think I was even woken up by their moans.  I think I scared them away with a broom. I think I went back to bed right after and I still think i heard their moans.  I think they shit on my balcony and I think that I want to shoot them.

I thought I was going to win Powerball yesterday for 340 million dollars until I didn't buy a ticket
because I thought that the cutoff was just before the numbers were drawn.  Then I thought there would be no winner so I could try this Saturday.  When I saw that there was a winner, I thought about going to Oregon and stealing the ticket.  I thought the winner was probably someone less deserving than me.  Then I thought, "Does anyone really DESERVE to have that much money freely given to them?" After careful thought I decided yes, me.

I thought "Dead Like Me" would be resurrected just as I thought Madden would be put in a grave.  I thought the Giants were destined to win against the Cowboys and I thought the Yankees were saved.  I think I'm starting to hate my writing but I don't think my professors do.  It seems, I think, that my bullshit still sells.  And I don't think my professor's see through.

My eyes burn with fury as I think I've thought too much for the day.  I think I should have brought in a pillow.  "That's not permitted" is what think they'd say.  I think I've had enough. I think my
thoughts are barren.  I think a thought that thinks itself has thought enough for thinkers.

It Also Rises...

The rum drips slowly through my day and menial tasks seem like an eternity.  I've realized at age 25, that I can't do much of anything in the house on my own.  I'm like a freshman college student who cheated his way through high school and is now being forced to learn the material on his own.

It took me three hours to put up a set of curtains today, two hours to put together a coffee table
yesterday and last week I had to ask my friend where they keep the sugar in the supermarket.  I know it's hard to believe but yes, I am really that inept.

But there is hope.  My neighbors knocked at my door this afternoon to retrieve the strainer I borrowed
from them earlier in the day.  They did so together, as they always do when they come to my apartment.  The short one always does the talking and the tall one always does the laughing.  Together they're a good team and I can see why they'd come as a unit.

"I'm going to make macaroni and cheese."

"Right, here's the thing, I still have the rigatoni that I made in the strainer because I don't have any
Tupperware.  Do you have Tupperware?  We can make a trade."

"Yeah I've got Tupperware hold..."

"Actually, if you want you can just have the rigatoni. I made enough for five but it's only me."

The tall one laughed.  The short one looked at me with skepticism.

"You're Italian right?"

"Yes, yes I am, but that doesn't mean I made the rigatoni from scratch."

"Alright we'll take it."

I went to the fridge and grabbed the strainer with the rigatoni and the jar of Prego.  The look I received
when I got to the door was a mix of disgust and disappointment.  Disgust at the bottle of Prego and
disappointment in the sorry 25 year old Italian boy that stood in front of her that did not know how to
make his own sauce.

"You know what.  That's okay.  I make my own sauce and I...  just forget it."

"I know, I know, it's bad, I know.  I, well to tell you the truth I'm kind of new to all of this.  Look at
these jeans.  You see those holes?  You know why they are there?  Because in the seven years or so that my mother has stopped doing my laundry, I haven't learned how to do it on my own."

"Sad."

"I know, I'll be like 40 when I learn how to cook."

The tall girl laughed.

"I'll tell you what.  I hate taking out the garbage.  You see that pile right there?  I loathe the time when
I have to take that to the dumpster.  If you take out our garbage, I'll do your laundry."

"Will you fold them?"

"Yeah...but I'm not touching your underwear."

"That's... you know that's, I'm, I'm fine with that.  BUT, you also have to teach me how to cook.  I'll buy
all the stuff but you have to teach me."

"Okay."

I bid them farewell and the short one pointed out that there was garbage outside their door when I was ready to take it.  I almost tripped over the step as I peered my head out the door to take a gander.  The
tall one laughed and I finished getting ready for work.

"It's beginning to feel like a real home", I thought, as I cleared the beer bottles away from the counter to make way for my coffee cup.  i finished getting ready for work while staring outside my window.  The sun was fading but I had enough sunshine within to light my way to work.  I smiled a little when I thought about just how right Hemingway was.