/ no see ums

There are perfectly good reasons for leaving anonymous comments and creating anonymous websites and sending anonymous emails, and just because I can’t actually think of those reasons doesn’t make it not so. Still, we were all raised on the Web, and we all survived the site traffic fever that swept through the early part of the decade, and we have all matured into writing for writing’s sake, much as Rob Lowe graduated from licking the toilet bowls of St. Elmo’s Fire to his own adult television drama, The Lyon’s Den (ok, bad example), and much as Andrew McCarthy survived the wrath of Duckie to eventually star in the, um, hit show E-Ring (sp?), er, and, um just as Ally Sheedy rose from…oh never mind.

I guess what I am saying is that I am going to delete unsigned comments because they don’t make me as happy as, say a Bob Ross landscape or a fedora hiding tiny bottles of bourbon or when I am able to reach the door and throw the dog out JUST before she vomits all those $35 Nintendo DS cartridges that somehow didn’t agree with her.

Also, I shouldn’t have to say this, but if you are new to the Internet, or my grandmother just stopping by to visit my blarg or someone who just accidentally couldn’t say who you are because the Homeland Security will getcha, then you have no reason to take offense. So don’t.

Also, I made a skit! Because pills are easier to swallow when they are funny! Also: cherry-flavored.

“Recession proof your blog by ensuring your value to the internet with these three easy steps!”

1.Show up early and stay late. Does Boing Boing get its first post up at 4:30 AM Eastern Time? Set your clock an hour ahead and greet the world at 3:29. Worried that Iron Fist doesn't even turn on the Internet until 11:30 PM? Even he takes a 4-hour bathroom break around 2:45 AM. Don't quit posting until 3:15.

2.Find ways to save the Internet money. The Internet is not a welfare state, and if you are not proving your financial mettle, you might find yourself in the 404. Has someone already written about the world's most dangerous roads in South America? Yes? Then write about something else, mmkay?

3.Make yourself well-known. Does the Internet need someone to step up? Make sure everyone knows your name. You can't take the credit for that great idea if you're hiding behind a proxy server when you decide to open your mouth. Seriously, enough with the anonymous shit. It's creepy, like that time your uncle came home for a holiday you weren't previously aware of and no one would explain to you what furlough meant.

/ Chains and links

I did eventually finish my taxes. Even took a bit of time to submit my article just before the deadline struck 9, kept my cogs nice and toothy. Said what the hell and threw out my resume a bit, tied it to the end of a line with a nice, fat piece of bacon, but avoided meat otherwise. I ate a pound and a half of asparagus, and still don't regret it, in spite of all the world's starvation.

I wound up running, 13 miles on Saturday, another 5 today. I did my best not to stop, and when I did stop, I did my best not to tie my shoes if they didn't need tying. Don't need to add any shame to my suffering. Halfway around the lake, I noticed it had never been this bright before, the way you notice minor changes when you haven't changed your route and routine in the length of fingertip to fingertip, arms outstretched for emphasis, this long. I looked down the bank, knowing what to expect, and there was the better part of 70 years worth of hemlock, lying in the water on top of god knows how many of her babies.

I told her about this tree, how it reminded me of her, because in spite of the windiest season any of us could remember, it waited for the calm to return, stood another day, then said now.

“You are comparing me to some old tree that fell into the lake?” she laughed.

“Yes, but it was a tree that stood still when pushed.”

We had one of those old hemlocks in our yard once. They don't like to grow old and die where they stand, give themselves up to sapsuckers and wood ducks. When they are ready, they break right near their base and come crashing back to earth. The wood is damn near worthless. When I put my fence up, I used hemlock for the rails, and I spend the better part of my summers replacing them. It is hard to describe why I am so fond of this old fence, for this very reason. As a kid in Texas, everything was chain link and indestructible. You could put one up and never need to touch it for 35 years.

“Wait, now you're comparing me to some old fence that's always falling down?”

“Yes, but in the sense that you make me feel needed and useful.”

Those chain link fences were a big part of our lives as kids, though. If you told me that I didn't go a single day during the 12th year of my life without finding my toehold halfway up and bounding over the metal bar of one of those fences, I'd believe you. If you came up to me and said, 'I lived up the street from you in McGregor and still don't appreciate you tormenting my dogs through my chain link fence 25 years ago', I'd apologize without so much as a reference check. And whenever I am wearing a favorite t-shirt, I will give a wide birth to any chain link fence I see, because they don't give a damn about fashion. It is hard to replace a favorite t-shirt, and I have even tried to stem the inevitable loss by occasionally returning to the store to pick up a spare, after I know, just know that I am wearing a soon-to-be favorite. But there is something you can't replicate in favoritism, not even when the materials are the exact same, and I have been stunned to throw away the old and put on the exact same new only to feel the fresh pain of loss once more.

“Ugh. So now you are comparing me to a t-shirt?”

My favorite one of all.

/ It's like 7 degrees this morning

On the way to Los Angeles, I popped a headphone splitter and Footloose into the DVD player and pined away for a time when the worst of your problems were only a secret barn dance away from blue sky pharmaceutical happiness. Alex kept asking me to put on the closed captioning because she couldn't understand what they were saying and for the first time in god knows how long, I cried. Words or no words, Footloose is one of those films you either understand or you are dead to me/do not understand.

But to be fair, she apparently has a similar complaint that manifested when I accidentally walked into the room while she was watching a movie that she feels as strongly about, Pretty Woman, which I had never seen before. Unfortunately, I walked in halfway through the movie, and a few plot details were lost on me.

Me: Hey! It's that one guy! The one from that show that is on every 4th channel every time we go to a hotel!
Alex: Seinfeld?
Me: OOH OOH! (points at nose) OOH!
Alex: Shh!
Me: Um, hey, why does everyone keep calling Julia Roberts a hooker? That's awfully judgmental, don't you think?
Alex: Because she's a hooker.
Me: Really, now, don't you start.
Alex: Shhh!
Me: Hey! Wait a second! Is this for real? That guy from Seinfeld just trick slapped Julia like Dr. Dre! I don't get it. Where's the joke? This is kind of awkward.
Alex: SHHH!
Me: Wow. She's gonna need an awfully big barn and a whole lot of Kenny Loggins to make this right.
Alex: God, shut up, you're not funny!

But later, we both got hammered and I pretended like I was Kevin Bacon and she pretended like she was Chris Penn, and I taught her how to dance and she said, 'I like your spunk!' and I said, 'Good! Because you're going to have it in your hair!'

Yeah, that's when I ruined the moment.

(Chris Penn was in Footloose. Kevin Bacon was in Footloose. Kevin Bacon was in She's Having a Baby. Elizabeth McGovern was in She's Having a Baby. Elizabeth McGovern was supposedly engaged to Sean Penn. Sean Penn is Chris Penn's older brother! Isn't it awesome how Chris Penn is probably connected to pretty much everyone?)

/ Roomba!

...and when the queen said 'let them eat cheesecake,' they exploded her...

Today was supposed to be the day when I got back on track; do my taxes, write the Great American Craig’s List Ad, get back into my normal running routine, switch to lower alcohol content and finally give myself up to organized religion. But there is ice on the deck and because of a rogue popcorn kernel, I have instead given up my ambitions of setting my financial affairs in order to find something pointy and metal to jam into my gums. Rubber coated paper clips are the bane of my existence, Jesus, no!

This is why winter is such a poor choice for celebrating the new year. The cold breaks hips and resolutions alike. And hearts, eegads.

Thursday, I was up til 4am finishing a proposal and it was exhilarating and exhausting in a way that helped me momentarily forget that there is no god and I have spent my brief chance at life making lots of money for other people. Poo!

What’s sad is that I keep telling myself that I could have done so much more. And really, there are only two, maybe three people I can blame for this: me, myself and the internet. I am too easily fooled when the Internet says I am pretty. My psyche is pervious to influence. And still, I cannot believe I am kicking myself for not working harder.

I am totally being cock blocked and bitch slapped by the inaptly named ‘American dream’ which comes with almost no sleep and was mostly made in China.

/ One of These Guys

I got the sweetest, most unexpected email from This Fish yesterday, and it reminded me how much I missed the old days before I realized the Internet offers discounts for CRAZY and I felt the burning desire to run, run, run! It also reminded me that SHE HAS MET MOLLY RINGWALD AND I HAVE NOT. I don’t know if I am okay with that.

PLUS------SURVIVED THE INTERNET
DELTA----HAVE NOT MET MOLLY RINGWALD

I have not offered up any meta on this site, nor have I put up my archives, nor have I fixed the links above, nor have I gotten that vasectomy. So many blank boxes on my to-do list I don’t know what to do. I am all task and no finish.

PLUS------CAN MULTITASK
DELTA----MULTIFINISHING

I also haven’t left comments anywhere. Except recently when I ate too much tequila and left an ill-thought link without even bothering to consider that the other person might not share my thoughts about what makes good election humor and oh my god I have adored this person for ages and am absolutely afraid to go back to her site now for the holy fear of facing my horror. I have cringe blocked her site. I am 35 years old.

PLUS------CONSIDERABLE TOLERANCE TO ADULT BEVERAGES
DELTA----DELUSIONAL RE: TOLERANCE LEVELS

I am afraid of meta because if I get to talking about my life, most of you would not be proud, even though I have seen many of you in unproud moments and that is good, because I don’t know if I could spend much time with sensible folk. My unproud trumps your unproud, though, I absolutely promise you. Unless it doesn’t and you have somehow done worse by the world than me. In which case, you disgust me. That’s just the way it works.

PLUS------"ONE OF THE GUYS"
DELTA----DOESN’T LIKE ONE OF THE GUYS

There was this funny moment at one of the casinos where the four of us were celebrating my winnings and I was dumping fistfuls of nickels onto the waitresses like golden showers who responded by delivering a steady stream of long islands, and for a moment we were all famous; pound wise and penny foolish and the ladies said we could have all the girlfriends in the world, and the gents said you are the only one for me.

PLUS------SURVIVED LOS VEGAS
DELTA----HAVE NOT MET MOLLY RINGWALD

/ And I Saw a Show!

I have a tattoo. It is tinytiny. I barely remember getting it. It is worse than not having one at all. It is not worse than taking a trip to Las Vegas and becoming a stereotype, cementing your place among god knows how much mediocrity. It is even worse than that because it is a Chinese character. I would never admit to getting a tattoo, but I have this feeling that if I don't say anything, I might do it again. I wanted something inauspicious, like the Chinese character for unlucky or devious. I would have settled for the Chinese character for cliche, but their internet connection was down. I gave peace a chance. Oh, I know, don't tell me.

He kept talking to me before I took my shirt off, trying to explain that it wasn't really that bad, that you got used to it, that once it got started, it wasn't any big deal, and in the state I was in, I didn't even realize at first that he was trying to tell me that tattoos hurt. Honestly, I had forgotten about this, and even then, you don't feel anything, other than the dread of trying to live up to what you are doing. Nothing hurts worse than a mistake. Except making the other person feel like she MADE you make the mistake. Oh, and then seeing the bill.

I hate dreams about going back home to see old friends. I hate that feeling that the world has moved on without you. More than anything, I hate the replacement. The replacement who is just like you, who fills the gap you left. For me, he is someone who always wears glasses. He is supposed to be funny, although I never find him so. He walks around with this air of confidence that borders on cocky. That would be the unfenced border between cocky and douchebag. I don't know where they find these people, but my god, there is always someone there ready with your caricature.

The entire weekend I kept trying to see an interesting story behind every haggard hotel face, every one-armed gambler, every cocktail waitress pure like the mascara-driven snow, every foreign cab driver with a profound grasp of television sitcom history, every arm-float armed kid jumping into the pool fingers clamped tightly over tiny pink noses. But I suppose I have moved entirely too much in my life to find much if any interest in the vacation diaspora. It would be too much like when you were kids and one of you would throw a dirt clod or a handful of pea gravel up into the air directly above you and then cover your head and hope it hit the other. Mostly it would land somewhere in between.

/ two sugars one lump

I didn't really love my college education. There just wasn't enough chemistry. Lots and lots and lots of social science. Not much social scene. I took a trip one fall.

There was a journalist there, and I'm sure I will get this wrong but the gist of his argument was that you cannot count anger or melancholy. You can't answer the question, 'How many courages have you shown in your lifetime?' You can't say, 'She gave me 7 warmths and helped me feel a dozen nostalgias.' The most important things do not count.

I gave it my best by arguing that what noncount really means is that you cannot place a number on certain things. Determination is priceless. Hope cannot be quantified. You cannot count the most important things.

His girlfriend had just flown halfway around the world to break up with him in person, and maybe see Prague in the process, check two life-time items off her list with one stone. He won the argument for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was his recent sadnesses. I was full of pities for the poor guy, and twice as many regrets because I have to admit on at least one occasion I thought, 'I wonder what she looks like? I hear she's single.'

I am packing up my bags, and am looking forward to hiding away and writing pages and pages of a history that isn't even close to true.

My pen is pumped.

/ Posty

Every now and then you have a dream involving an acquaintance and every now and then that acquaintance is a woman and every now and then acquaintances are sexually receptive to…anyway, you get the idea, but the point that I am trying to make is DO NOT ADMIT TO ACQUAINTANCES THAT THEY FIGURED PROMINENTLY IN YOUR SUBCONCIOUS HYPOTHETICALS PARTICULARLY IF THEY HAVE YOUR CELL NUMBER.

Um. The exception is if these acquaintances occasionally partake in that food group known by my grandmother as tequila and then, you know, MySpace rulez are in effect.

Jenny is hosting another TequilaCon this spring in the city of brotherly love (INCEST RULEZ!) and it is your annual opportunity to see us get drunk and try to make out with each other (shut up).

I am thinking that this year we should have seminars. I was reading some web site where this one guy tries to tell people who spend 95% of their free time on the internet how to pick up women and once I stopped laughing at the irony (which was several hours after I finished friending the last of my graduating college class whose screen names begin with the letters Be*) I blurted out, ‘Thanks for your opinion moderately attractive internet personality, but everyone knows the best way to meet women is to mind your own business and keep your office door closed with the lights off. Because then they won’t leave you alone.’

There are only two steps in my forthcoming guide titled How to Get the Girl of Your Dreams:
1. Go to sleep
2. Repeat step one

There used to be a third step that involved Nyquil, but then my doctor (backed up by the aforementioned internet) said, whatever you do, DO NOT MIX ALCOHOL AND ACETAMINOPHEN.

I just checked and the two active ingredients of Nyquil are ALCOHOL AND ACETAMINOPHEN.

That is pure cuervo gold.

PS – PHILADELPHIA, SATURDAY MAY 3rd

For those of you with guilty consciences, I have been assured that every hotel room comes with a bible.

/ Vega$ is the New Barack

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2008
1:22 PM
“They asked us if we wanted to go to Vegas. Let’s!”

“Okay. When? Spring Break? Memorial Day?”

“…saturday…”

“This is going to end in a fight, you know.”

“Ooh, look! I brought you some wine!”

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2008
9:37 AM
“I am so sorry, but ever since you told me about them, I have not been able to think about anything else! I mean, to think they were right there doing YOU KNOW and you had to go to the bathroom, you poor thing!”

“I only said ‘Mommy’ one time!”

“Oh, I don’t know what I am going to do when I see her! I mean EWWWW! She is my friend, but EWWWWWOMGOMG!!!”

“These things happen. I looked it up, and apparently there is still some loophole that can get them into heaven. It involves a live sheep and a barbecue pit, but you know.”

“I know I promised not to tell anyone, but…DON’T KILL ME. I told my husband.”

“No worries. I have a philosophy about gossip: Never tell unless you plan on telling TWO people. That way it can’t be absolutely traced directly to you. I think this is called triangulation.”

“So someone else knows? WHO?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to tell someone else! That’s the rule.”

“You are good.”

“That’s the rumor.”

11:15 AM
“Well, they found a ticket and they want to book!”

“Wait, they still want to go to Vegas on Saturday?”

11:16 AM
“Are you still there?”

2:41 PM
“I’d like to redeem some miles for a trip to Vegas. Please. Thank you. Please. Ma’am.”

“No problem. It looks like you have 30,000 miles. When would you like to fly out?”

“…saturday…”

“This is going to end badly, you know.”

4:58 PM
“Did you get our hotel booked?”

“Pfft. No problem.”

“Did you get our flights booked?”

“Pfft. No problem.”

“Um. How early are we leaving?”

“Before I answer, which constellation have you always wanted to see?”

“…”

“Wait, wait! Before you answer, how do you feel about LAX?”

“…”

“Wait, wait, wait! Before you answer, what is your opinion of three hour layovers?”

“…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait! Before you answer, REMEMBER THAT THIS WAS YOUR IDEA!”

6:10 PM
“How is your wines?”

“Vegas is the new Barack.”

“Aww, yeah.”

/ Predictions

I think if I could have one skill it would be walking on stilts, but I would settle for writing the perfect letter, because either way I could stand high above the crowd as you wondered how here on earth I ever noticed your thousands of tiny abilities, like how you don’t like what you have until someone else tells you how wonderful it is, like how your smile always reminds me of lemonade dripping down my chin, like your force field that prevents anyone from arguing with you, even when you haven’t the slightest clue what you are saying.

You asked him if he ever sees his ex in town, and he smiled and confessed and somewhere in that back story you imagine the two of them face to face over opposite ends of some check-out aisle, and she asks, ‘Are you not talking to me anymore?’ and he says, ‘You’re only saying that because I never talk to you anymore but 10 years from now, I might say 'hi' and there goes your entire argument, so ha! years of work down the drain.’

And since she works at the garden store, she can’t spit in his purchase because it wouldn’t make no difference, and she briefly considers taking on a waitress job at that restaurant where he always takes the bride he left her for, but instead she just takes a few heads off the bouquet, even though they are perennials and she knows they’ll re-grow. He only bought me annuals! How could I have not known the significance? Asters and begonias and once, a foxglove, which lasts two years. Fucker.

She says, ‘Have a nice day and would you like any help out to your car and how dare you move on and not have any noticeable scars,’ and laughs. And he laughs, too, but sorrowfully, like you when we go through old photo albums on those evenings when some drunk driver takes out a power line and we are our only source of warmth before the fire has a chance to take over.

‘Do you remember this?’ she asks, pointing to a picture. ‘God, so many memories.’

And I look and think yes, so many. But only a few come to mind, and then I am forced to relegate another adored saying to the bargain bin, because if there are 100,000 words in a novel and 20,000 in a short story, then my god, a picture doesn’t really tell you as much as popular wisdom would have you believe.

‘Um, I remember it was really, hmm, warm that day,’ pointing at the picture where we are in the full light of the sun and are clearly sweating and there are cacti in the background. Ugh. It is like my head is a pinata full of poetry, I think. The worst part is being strung up by my toes and dodging the blindfolded children who seem so much bigger than blindfolded children used to be back in my day.

‘You know,’ I say sipping the last of my drink, ‘The way I hear it, begonias are sometimes perennial. You just gotta protect them from that first frost.’

Fortunately, they cannot hear me from way up here.

/ Fridayum

Sometimes I think that if I just start talking about any subject in particular something wonderful will eventually come out, and the best days for testing out this theory are Fridays because with the gradual dissolution of my office I am invariably the only one here. But I also used to firmly believe that if you only spent some time with me, you would eventually fall hopelessly in love, and I know from experience that this is certainly not true and as far as I know, no co-worker of mine has ever even batted her eyes at me. Plus, today, someone else showed up to the office, and I must either whisper my wonderments, or hold them inside until she has to use the restroom. I keep asking her if she wants another diet coke. She is teetotaling me into submission.

We did talk about similar dreams, though, both of which involved events real and imagined. I dreamed I came into a wood and a great, white owl landed in the tree in front of me. It then decided to fly right at me, and as I reached for my camera, the goddamned thing beat me into a pulp. Without even the hint of a segue, I then found myself on an airstrip watching a plane take off, and I thought, ‘It’s going to crash,’ and sure enough, the thing went right back into the ground as soon as it got airborne, and I laughed because what kind of an idiot tries to fly a 1978 Trans Am? But out of the dust, the Trans Am started speeding towards me, and I was sorry for laughing because the guy got out and said something like, ‘How about the two of us have a contest? The first one who dies is the loser.’

She dreamed that she was in a car with our boss headed along a mountainside and they were suddenly faced with an overwhelming flood. Apparently our boss said, ‘Don’t worry, we can make it!’ and they were promptly swept away. This is actually happening, so my dreams win because they make no sense.

At last, I couldn’t help it and I blurted out, ‘CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?’ and no sooner had I said it, she said, ‘I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO SAY!’ and it was a great relief to know that I am not the only one to have inadvertently surprised our co-workers who have been going steady right under our noses. We all talk to each other with a mixture of wonder, curiosity and barely suppressed horror. The minutes seem to fly by. They both have dates tonight with their spouses, and they asked me about any movies I’ve seen lately. I lied and said they should see The Bucket List. I have no idea what it’s about. I have a poor record picking films. Movie theaters are for making out. I cannot understand how IMAX is in the black.

Tomorrow I am caucusing, and I was THIS close (holds hands wide apart, but I am not very tall, so it’s a mixed metaphor) to getting Alex to join me, because she recently switched sides and it had nothing to do with a foot massage AT ALL, but then she asked, ‘Will people talk to me about politics?’ and I said, ‘THAT IS A POSSIBILITY,’ and I barely rolled my eyes a bit and you could only hear my whistle if you are proficient in the upper ranges, and she said, ‘No, thank you.’

Our daughter exploded into the kitchen at that moment because I had her governor removed at birth and she is unstable at speeds below 70 miles per hour.

‘What do you want daddy to buy you for your birthday?’ I asked.

‘A root beer,’ she said.

She said it so sweetly and earnestly that for a moment I thought I might have a real chance of living forever because I could feel every cell in my body antioxidize. I would give anything to be able to make someone feel that hopeful about the world just once in my life.

This is what I think is terrific: adding a few mangoes, some fresh rosemary, a bottle of jarritos and maybe something slightly exotic like the latest issue of Architectural Digest to the top of my grocery basket just so the other people in the check-out line can see me giving the middle finger to mah horizons.

It is one of my best qualities, and like most of my best qualities one I almost never display. In fact, I can’t think of a single time I have ever added mangoes and rosemary and jarritos to my grocery bag just to seem more urbane. I can’t help it! I don’t know how to talk to women! Or rather, I don’t know how to talk to women without talking too much. Yesterday in a meeting, the facilitator said the best advice she ever received was never to say anything on your first day. Later she asked me if I had any questions and I took her advice and said, ‘I’m really more of a listener,’ while making it plainly aware that I was making a conscious effort not to stare at her breasts.

Probably not one of my best qualities.

/ If You Think I Don't Have More Bird Photos You Are Wrong

There was another car flipped over on the road to work and I bit my lip but couldn't suppress my anger at being forced to think about my own mortality before opening my email. Now I will spend the rest of the day committed to a fantasy of crawling amnestically through the frost-bit woods and nursed to health by a coven of revelationistas. They will convince me to repent before it is too late and I will persuade them to vote for my candidate before the polls close on Saturday. It will be an epic conflict of will versus memory. The upturned vehicle symbolizes man's impatience. And woman's. Women can be impatient, too.

Sadly, opening my email only further convinces me to ponder my own mortality, as every other subject line asks me DO YOU WANT TO BE A SUPERHERO IN BED?!? I think of how I might do this, what separates the superheroes from the normal heroes. Is it x-ray vision? Donning your underwear over your pants? Mask and cape combo? Super speed? I bet I could attain three of the four without even reading the contents, so I see no reason not to recycle these messages. I will save them for leaner times, when my powers show signs of diminishing.

My co-workers who were having an affair have both moved back to their respective corners, and still continue to talk to me, though no longer as a unified front. They seem neither happier nor not-happier, and their conversation starters offer few clues as to their place, as in I AM IN A GOOD PLACE, or I AM IN A NOT GOOD PLACE. She recently asked me WILL IT EVER FUCKING STOP RAINING BEFORE I DIE HERE IN MISERY? And he asked, 'WHAT ARE YOUR VIEWS ON SUSHI?' Well, he mostly just sat there and stared at me. But I know it was what he was thinking. Because it was what I was thinking, and god bless us, we are all human beings after all. I faked a phone call and bathroom urge at the same time and got the hell out of there, even though it was my own office. Looking at crazy for brief periods is fine, but you don't want to linger.

When I returned, all the Jolly Ranchers were gone from my candy dish. I did one of those wink and six-shooter gestures to the wall that separates our offices.

/ Sapsucker

Love is to hate as being in love is to what exactly? Because clearly loving someone is not the same as being in love with someone, as the latter generally requires a fluid exchange of some sort, which is why you shouldn't make the decision to become blood brothers at all too lightly, because you are getting into some serious gray area. I suppose along this same line of thinking, if it can be called such, you can hate someone without being out for blood, but once you make the decision that so-and-so is your sworn enemy, then you are in hate with him. Hmm, maybe the distinction has to do with swearing.

The reason a distinction has to be determined is because the fate of our humanity is at stake, because in the war of good versus evil, hatred comes out ahead if you look at sheer numbers. Because you can be in love with such a few number of people at one time (0 or 1, typically, which is why binary is sometimes referred to as the language of love), but you can hate countless individuals at once, which is why we have sayings like an orgy of violence or an orgy of bloodshed. You almost never hear someone talk about an orgy of goodwill or an orgy of rainbow-colored kitten affection. Almost never.

I am confused this week because people who apparently love me have turned on the sunlight, and there is so much affection it reminds me of wigging out on LSD and convinced my skin is crawling with insects. But not in a bad way! Kind, sweet, rainbow-colored, cartoon baby insects that taste like amaretto. And I am confused because I think I may have hurt someone's feelings in the process, and also I got dumped, which is strange because it is usually me doing that and I was like the android who becomes human and steps on his very first nail, and he is like, 'Fascinating. It is difficult to describe this new sensation, but if I could do so it would probably sound like, 'OH MY FUCKING GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STOP AAGHHH!' And then I walked around all day like a moron until a tiny voice of reason suggested that I pull the nail out. And I was like, 'Oh.'

Actually, it was a tiny sadistic voice of reason, because the motherfucker could have made the suggestion a whole lot earlier. We are our own worst enemies and we are evil bastards. Thank god we have a sense of humor, too.

Love is to hate as being in love is to being in love, as it turns out, because they are opposites, but not entirely, they are both made of equal parts fear and affection and pain strikes the same part of your brain as pleasure, only at a slightly different angle, as anyone who has ever suffered from red tide poisoning will tell you. Sometimes hot tastes cold and cold tastes hot, and it's only a matter of confusing the signals. Sometimes you burn your tongue and your body tells you that this is bad, and sometimes you burn your tongue and your body tells you that, my god, that was bad, you should totally do that again.

And then you take a mortar and pestle to her, and break her down into her tiniest parts and sleep with her in your hair and the pores of your skin, and through the night you whisper such longingly hateful words of encouragement, don't stop, don't, don't, don't. And when she brings you a glass of water you are to love as love is to her. You wonder if it will burn your tongue. You are mildly disappointed when it doesn't.

/ basin

How does that saying go? We do not inherit this land from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children? And does it mean that our crimes will continue to be passed on until they reach the generation that no longer bears children? He used to play a funny game in his head after working all day, in the heat of the shower he would consider himself blessed that he was born at this point in history, thinking of all those past generations without running water. And as he washed the dirt from underneath his fingernails, shaved the reflection of an increasingly aging face, he regretted instead that he was born too soon. The hot water would sometimes run out before he finished his thoughts.

Even more rarely, but rare is remembered, he thought so hard on the matter that he left the shower cold and confused, wondering if this was in fact who he was. What if I am someone else entirely? But before he could answer the question, there would be a knock on the door, and she would be eager to come inside, kiss his back and gently push him out. My turn!

Unlike him, she would leave the door cracked open so that he could see and hear her routine, and she would hum a song that he would have stuck in his head, and sometimes he wondered if she did this to prevent him from finishing his thoughts, with which she competed for attention.

You've kissed me like that before, he would think. It was nice. You should have stopped after the first. Rare is remembered.

And she would bounce into bed and ask, 'Why don't you write for me like you used to?'

'You remember.'

'Of course I remember.'

It wasn't a question, he thought. It is why.

She points to a picture in her magazine, 'I want to go back here. Don't you remember how much fun we had?'

He smiles and shakes his head. He remembers the side streets, wondering if anyone might know how old the cobblestones were. The large, hand-carved wooden doors that sheltered sunny courtyards free from the overwhelming smell of diesel and manure. The money changer in the park who explained how he could tell the foreigners since they were the only ones not holding hands or carrying groceries. How they bought a bag and filled it with bread and wine and held hands the rest of the time.

'I remember the hotel only had hot water for an hour each day,' he said.

'Oh, I forgot about that. Maybe Hawaii, then?'