I would like to offer happy trails and good luck wishes to an honorary charter member of Team Smith, Jason Anderson, who is now Padre. No, not a daddy…
Come to think of it, for accuracy, let us stick to provable statements.
Jason Anderson is now a Padre of the San Diego variety.
Can I finally say, again…the New York Yankees are about as destructive and evil to the game of baseball as the aforementioned J-Train was to the cumulative GPA of the University of Illinois Baseball House, fall, 2002.
You’re right, that’s an inside statement. Since it would pain me to segregate darling readers…
If that semester bore a love child, its name would be Saddama Bin Hussein.
Oh, sorry Conroy. That Yankee thing…I didn’t say that.
…
Lately, my dreams have been almost completely dominated by episodes of drunk driving. A reaper in a Chevy, that’s me. I actually STILL have friends who claim they're better at handling the wheel post tipping intoxicants for the better part of an evening. Because the part of my brain responsible for logic isn’t an ice cream dildo, I fail to invest in such claims.
In my dreams, I’m a hit and run specialist. Weeks ago, I would smash other cars at blistering high speeds and drive off relatively unharmed as they shouted obscenities through smashed windows. It was quite unlikely they were anything but relatively QUITE harmed. Such is fucking life. Like I have the time in my dreams to stop and check up on every person whose death I likely deal.
Yesterday, I mowed down 3 Golden Girl look-a-likes as they were crossing the street in what looked to be Edenton, North Carolina. The fourth…you know, the little sparkplug…she leapt out of harm's way at the last second. This morning, I watched patiently as my wiper cycle cleared the Westminster Club’s 2006 “Best in Show” Bull Terrier off my windshield. Seriously. I saw a picture online the night before. It was definitely him.
The latter entered me in a high-speed police chase that was interrupted…at its peak, of course…by the sun as it sliced its way through my blinds.
Either way, I wake up to the relief of not having to deal with a laundry list of criminal charges. Been there, done that. Fuck Folgers. I kick off my sheets and roll.
…
I need to enter myself into a wildly destructive relationship. I need to slip into the dark underbelly of crime that runs through the city of Los Angeles. I need to pick up a painful and harsh addiction.
My days and nights have blended to a mesh. My weeks, my months. I pick up sleep when it’s required. Sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. I kick my own ass at the gym to burn off something that would otherwise build until I began eating my own arms.
Fuck! Here’s the thing about being a writer. It’s this craving, this itch to scratch. This need to say something, anything. Other than that, all I want to do with my life is eat PB&J sammiches. Still, I refrain. After all, this is Los Angeles. I can’t be rolling through tubs of Skippy. Talk about self-destruction.
…
Let’s talk about our relationship for a moment. After all, I think it’s important. I want you to know where we stand.
I’ve been cheating, again. The warning signs were apparent. Infrequent posts, the distancing. The cold in our kisses. Hell, we haven’t “made love” in 22 days. Yes, those quotation marks hold significance.
You deserve nothing less than the truth. How lovely, it’s what I exclusively deal…
Wait, that’s a lie.
I’ve been with someone else. Someone I’ve been talking about for many weeks. Lately, things have heated up…considerably. I hate to be harsh, but sometimes it’s the only recipe for healing. Today, I had the day off. We fucked all day. Truth be told, we haven’t stopped fucking for the past ten days…
On counters and floors, against walls and under water, in public and on sandy beaches. It’s been endless, profound, poetic and brilliant. I left a steamy session to drop this note. When I’m finished, a steamy session awaits…likely going late into the night.
Don’t be stung, or hurt, or bitten. Don’t feel rejected. At the moment, you may find it difficult to realize, but it’s nothing more than a link in the procedural chain.
Back to my darling, my tentative, “Saint Will.” Should be able to push through to finish by the beginning of March. Or middle…or late…but soon.
What else would I be talking about?
