Tuesday, May 27, 2003

Never Let Her Drive

My heart is as broken as my car's tail light from the time I let you drive, and you stupidly backed into that truck.

Monday, May 26, 2003

Nothing Even Close to Profound

I finally have a job for this summer. Right now I'm a stockman at Wal*Mart, but they said in a week that will move to being a cashier.

I hate it when things go as I planned. That usually means something went wrong.

Friday, May 23, 2003

Imaginary Conversation:
Semi-Intimate Lady Friend

McB: So, I guess I'm gonna go.
Lady: Go where?
McB: Back home.
Lady: I thought you were staying the night.
McB: That was before all this shit happened.
Lady: (forlorn) I'm sorry. (pause) Do you hate me now?
McB: No, I don't hate you. I like you. I like being with you. Just you. But today I realized that there is a lot of shit that comes with you that I don't like.
Lady: (indignantly) What does that mean?
McB: It means you've got a lot of stuff going on with your ex-boyfriend still, and I don't want to get caught up in the middle of it again.
Lady: Ex-boyfriend is a dick! I'm never going to see him again.
McB: Yeah, you've said that before. And I've told you that it's probably not a good idea to keep hanging out with him. But the next day you come to me with another story about how he was mean to you again.
Lady: Well, that's over now. For good.
McB: I hope so.
(long pause)
Lady: So, what now?
McB: I'm going to go.
Lady: Come on, stay. Please?
McB: No. I gotta go.
Lady: (pause. then with a confused look) So what was this conversation?
McB: What do you mean?
Lady: Are we . . . breaking . . . up? I don't know. What are we now?
McB: What were we before?
Lady: I don't know. We weren't exactly boyfriend/girlfriend. I don't know. Who cares?
McB: Well, whatever; I guess we should say all that bullshit about how we should just be friends now.
Lady: You have to stay my friend. You're one of the only people that's nice to me anymore.
McB: O.K. I can do that.
Lady: (hopeful) So, maybe later?
McB: "Later" what?
Lady: Maybe later, you and I can . . . do whatever we were doing again?
McB: We'll see. Let's wait and see. (pause) Well, goodbye.
(The two exchange hugs.)
Lady: Bye.

Friday, May 16, 2003

Hold Me In Your Dreams

No body pillow and no amount of sleep
Could make up for the rest
That I felt when I woke up next to you.
I miss the hair
That falls onto your face,
Seemingly, just so I could
Brush it away again.
I sat in silence
Just so I could hear you breathe
And watch you
As you fell asleep
I fell for you.

Fifty miles away
Somewhere you lay
Your pretty face
Somewhere on your pillow,
And I'm here alone.
Any given day
Some time I'd pay
To see your face.
Some times I think of you.
I always think of you
At night
Tonight I'm going to dream of you.
Hold me tight in your dreams, too.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

The Matrix Has Me

I just got back from watching The Matrix Reloded. I loved it.

I was a mild fan of the first one. It did have awesome fight scenes and sinful amounts of gunplay, and after all, it was a sci-fi movie. So, I was kinda excited to see the sequel. Despite Reloded's shameless cliff-hanger ending, I thought it was a super fan-fucking-tastic thrill-ride. It's got pointless-but-cool fighting sequences, explosions galore, a hot chick in leather, and the coolest special effects this side of Star Wars Episode II. And underneath it all, Reloded still has some hardcore science fiction, semi-philosophical themes. Any movie that makes you think (except for City of Angels which made me think Have I died and gone to Hell?) is alright by me.

So, what did Reloded make me think? Well, this is me just speculating here, but I think that in The Matrix Revelations we'll find out that the matrix is inside of a matrix, itself (a la The Thirteenth Floor). I guess we'll have to wait until November to see if I'm right. Until then, I'll have images of slo-mo jump kicks and exploding cars running through my head.

Sunday, May 11, 2003

Three Hours Left

You felt it when you layed next to her on a cold concrete basketball court for over an hour when you first met her. You felt it when you both sang the same lyrics to a song you'd never shared with anyone while she was driving your car a little too fast, but for some reason you didn't care. You felt it when you were sitting too far away from her on the couch watching a bad romantic comedy, all the while wanting the distance between the two of you to be measured in millimeters, not feet. You felt it when you told her that you wanted to kiss her and then stared at her, watching her fall asleep, never gathering up the courage to actually do it. You felt it when you fell asleep next to her, first on the couch and then, after her father came home, on her bed.

You could feel it in the ethereal; there was a charge in the atmosphere, a faint smell, and a flash in your peripheral vision. And of course you could feel it in the physical, in your stomach, in your chest, in your legs, in your erection, in the back of your mind, and on the tip of your tongue. It was everywhere: the glow of the TV, her bottom lip, your stupid hat, the storm clouds, the pain in your back, the wood-paneled walls, the drunks outside, her feet, her eyes, her breath, and every move she made. You were being overwhelmed by it, about to drown.

And then suddenly it was all gone, and you were walking the several blocks home shivering from the cold May Sunday morning breeze. Six hours had never seemed so long. You found yourself thinking irrational things such as hoping McDonald's would burn down, so that she wouldn't have to work and could come home to find you waiting for her on the bench next to her door. That's when you realized that it was still there.

You didn't know what the hell it was, where it came from, why it was there, and why it wouldn't leave. But you liked it. And it made you smile.

Thursday, May 08, 2003

Who Am I?

I am everything you hate, nothing you are, anything you want, and something you thought about last night. I am your best nightmare and your worst dream.

I am a clever line of poetry. I am a perfectly-written paragraph. I am a happy melody in a sad song. I am a bad joke. I am a laugh that stays in your throat.

I am action and I am stagnation. I am intelligence and I am ignorance. I am the world and I am nothing. I am understatement and I am contradiction. No, I'm not. Yes, I am.

Monday, May 05, 2003

Hopped Up on Legal Drugs and Procrastination

Our subject is swimming in the luke-warm pool of a caffiene / nicotene overdose with just hint of sleep deprivation. His eyes slide in and out of focus, and as he sits down, the world begins to slip out from underneath him. He can feel bland scrambled eggs and burnt bacon sloshing around in his intestines. His mind races as he thinks of nothing at all. He's having a hard time keeping his mind on one

When he walked to work this morning, he was shivering. He thought it was because it was somewhat cold out. When he got inside he didn't stop shivering. Clenching his fists was the only way to stop his hands from shaking. He feels his hand begining to tremble again.

An incredible apathy washes over our subject and he realizes that at this moment he doesn't give one damn about this meaningless world. Time is just a matter of perspective; reality is a construct of the mind. Our subject is so fucking profound.


The lights all seem dim, the noises so distant. Our subject feels as thought he is outside of his body watching himself on TV. He is watching his not-so-story-book life scroll up a computer screen, line after line of his justifications and explanations slowly gliding upward like movie credits. All the while impressively juvenile metaphors float through his cranium, distracting his attempt at concentrating on one thing. It's not working, and realizing that it isn't working gives him something to concentrate on.

Earlier, when our subject was crossing the street, a person not five feet in front of him tripped on the curb and fell. Our subject didn't even look to see if the fallen person got back up. Our subject begins to think it will be "cool" to try and stay up for 48 hours.

Sunday, May 04, 2003

As a Guy Who Can't Dance

It wasn't until last night that I really realized how much I appreciate a girl that can dance. I may not be able to dance well, but I can at least find a beat and shake my fucking hips to it.

At a party last night, I asked a really cute girl to dance. I had strategically planned to ask her to dance during a slower song. So, when Elton John's Rocket Man started blaring over the speakers, I knew it was go time.

I did my best strut -- "ramble" seems like a more appropriate word here, seeing as I was somewhat intoxicated, but my intention was to strut -- over to her, and in my suavest voice and most eloquent speech spoke thusly, "Hey, wanna dance?"

She giggled and told me that nobody had ever asked her to dance before; I was soon to find out why. She put her hand gently on my shoulder, I wrapped my arm around her small waist, and she proceeded to freak out!

She was twisting and shaking and writhing and poppin' and lockin' like nobody's damn business! She was dancing at least slightly faster than double-time to the music. I was so confused that I started to wonder if I was dancing to a different song than she was. I knew I was drunk, but I didn't think I was that drunk.

She continued to dance to Elton John like she was dancing to Nelly. I continued to be baffled by her complete lack of rhythm; all the while I want to say, "Quit dancing so frantically. Settle down, let me grab your ass, and let's fucking dance."

I guess I just took for granted that every girl could dance at least as well as I can. Every girl I've danced with in the past has been able to, anyway. It's like it's genetically encoded into women's chromosomes to be able to dance. I feel sorry for that poor genetic mutant that I danced with last night.

Saturday, May 03, 2003

Lucky Charm

Apparantly, if a pretty young lady siting next to you in class begins poking a clear plastic sandwich bag filled with what looks like mucus -- as you find out later, it is actually borax mixed with alcohol -- asking her if the bag is her "lucky bag of snot" that she brought as a charm for the test that the two of you are about to take is a bad thing. She will most likely reply indignantly that it is a science experiment and choose not to talk to you for the rest of the class period.

Who knew?

Circa Now