Monday, August 29, 2005


I couldn't help but laugh. At you. At me. At every beautifully ugly thing in this world. I laughed with snot dripping out of my nose and pain running down my face. I laughed from somewhere deeper than my lungs, from my soul. I laughed from beyond the selfish, cynical, down-trodden, whiney, pseudo-intellectual organs in the center of me, from below my aching diaphram, from between my wheezing liver and churning stomach, from without my knotted intestines. The laughter grew like a tumor, and I could see the pain from this unfamiliar feeling in me reflecting in your confused eyes.

You weren't alone in not understanding this experience. Maybe it was a moment of clarity. Or maybe it was a moment of absolute insanity. But I laughed like I finally got the joke that I've been mulling over for the past twenty-two years. Of course, I probably didn't get it, or all of it. And even if I did, I've forgotten the punchline.

But that doesn't matter now. I still have the memory of holding when you said, "Let me go; I hate you." I still remember tackling you in the grass, cars passing by. I remember laughing and laughing and laughing and crying and not knowing why and not caring, and only caring about you for that moment, and not even caring if you didn't care about me, and just being thankful that I got laugh insanely with / at / next to / for / because of you.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Dear Tom C. Hunley,

I just stole and read your book of poems My Life as a Minor Character which I have been eyeing for two days now. Someone carelessly abandoned a copy in the faculty workroom next to the copy machine and I have no qualms with stealing things that don't belong to me. The reason it caught my eye is because I've been trying to write a poem about being a minor character in my own autobiography, but now I don't want to write it because I'd feel unoriginal, like I was stealing your idea. So, I guess I lied about not having any problems with stealing. Anyway, while I was reading, I found that I had already written all your poems. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they were my poems because they were all my ideas in the first place. You had apparently been taking dictation for me without my knowledge. I appreciate your enthusiasm; I'm sure you were just trying to help, but next time let me know before publishing a book of my poems under your name.

Recipe for Dying Lungs and Liver

Take the excitement of finally having friends back in town, peal off the responsibility of classes, and stir in the nuisance of several bills and two minimum-wage jobs that never seem to pay enough. Sprinkle in feelings of awkwardness and discomfort from living with a girlfriend and her roommate for a few weeks. Then slowly pour cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. Blend ingredients until the mixture turns into a blurry haze. Let cool before serving. Serves one.

Thursday, August 18, 2005


"I like potatoes because they look like boobies."
--Mr. McBastard to The Magster

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Is Josh There?

Someone just called my cell phone (wrong number) and asked for Josh. I almost said, "Speaking."

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Monday, August 08, 2005


"So, you can disappear and turn things invisible and stuff?" Miranda walked alongside Thomas, nearly trotting to keep up with Thomas' long, quick gate. She looked up at him, and he watched the ground as he walked. She didn't know where they were going, but Thomas seemed to. Actually, she wasn't sure if they were going anywhere. She had a feeling that if she slowed down or stopped Thomas would not wait up for her. He seemed uncomfortable to say the least. "I mean if you don't mind me asking." She shot him her best smile, but he didn't notice.

"Uh, I don't mind, I guess," he replied shyly. Thomas was still unsure of this girl's motives. Why does she want to know about me? Is she just curious, or is it something else? "It's not as cool as turning invisible, though," he said.

"How do you do it?" Miranda pressed.

Thomas had never talked about his ability with anyone before, not even his friends. He had always imagined telling someone, not anyone in particular, just someone. But he'd never really gotten the opportunity, until now. "Well, I kinda just suggest an idea to a person."

Miranda was confused. "What do mean?"

Thomas had had this conversation one thousand times in his head. He was always eloquent as he explained in detail the minutiae of his ability to some eager listener. They would listened wide-eyed and laugh as he told anecdotes about his experiences with his ability: The time he had scared a bully so much that the bully had pissed his pants on the playground; the time he used his ability to hide in his sister's room when she was having a slumber party and watched the girls change; the time he stole an entire couch from a furniture store. The listener would marvel at his power and be in awe of Thomas, and Thomas would smile and shrug. "It's just something I can do," he would say in humble summary. But now Thomas was hardly eloquent. "I kinda just put an idea into someone's mind, and they, like, make up the rest." This sounded much better in my head, he thought.

"I don't follow."

"It's like this," he began before pulling his head off his neck. He held is detached head out in front of the two of them, facing back, looking at Miranda.

She was stupefied. "That's awesome!"

"See, all I did was suggest to you that you see me pull my head off and hold it in my hand. It's up to you if you see blood dripping from my neck, or if my eyes glaze over, or if you hear the voice coming from my head's mouth or the stump of my neck."

She looked up at his neck. She knew his head was on top of it. It had to be. But she just couldn't see it. "Even though I know this is just a trick, I still can't see your head where it really is. Why?"

"I don't know," Thomas said as he replaced his head. "Your mind had already taken my suggestion and decided on what it was seeing. Even if it's wrong, why would your mind want change it's mind now?" He chuckled at what he had just said, and looked at Miranda. She was still staring at him.

"What happens if someone doesn't take the suggestion?"

"It happens every so often. People are easy to manipulate when they're distracted or emotional, but when they're calm or centered or zen or whatever you want to call it, they're harder to convince. Also, the more detailed one of my suggestions is, the less likely it is that they'll believe it. And the simpler my suggestion, the more the person can use their own imagination to expound upon it." Miranda was smiling and nodding her head. She was indeed a wide-eyed listener. "So, why do you want to know about this?" Thomas slowed his pace and looked into Miranda face. who is this girl? What does she want?

Miranda leaned in to tell a secret. Her face was serious, but somehow still smiling. She spoke in a hushed voice, "I have a super power, too."

Sunday, August 07, 2005


Plaid Shirt was fifty paces ahead of Miranda, walking lazily with long strides. He was tapping his pack of cigarettes against the butt of his hand. He ripped off the packaging and threw it into an alley as he passed. Miranda shook her head in disappointment. Without warning Plaid Shirt stopped and began to turn. Caught off guard and suddenly ashamed for stalking this man, Miranda conspicuously turned and inspected the stoop of the building next to her. Miranda's indiscreet action caught the eye of Plaid Shirt, and he inspected her for a few seconds before lifting a lighter to the cigarette dangling out of his mouth, shielding the flame from the breeze. His gaze stayed on Miranda for a few more seconds as he took the first drag off his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He turned back and continued on his way. Miranda sighed and shook her head again. What am I doing? she thought. Nevertheless, she continued her pursuit.

Over the next block, Miranda slowly closed the gap, all the time trying to come up with a rational reason for following this guy. She kept thinking about what Alex had told her about their kind of people and the energy that bound them all together. It had sounded a little crazy to her then, but it she thought that it might be starting to make sense. Miranda was so close behind the man in the plaid shirt now that she could smell his cigarette smoke.

Plaid Shirt flicked his cigarette butt into the street and gave a sly look over his shoulder. As he expected, Miranda was still following him, only closer than expected. Miranda noticed his backward glance and thought, I'd better come up with something to say before he gets anxious about be following him. But what do you say to in a situation like this? 'Hey, I know you've got powers; I saw you use them on people. That's pretty cool.'

Miranda blinked and he was gone. She stopped. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. The man in the plaid shirt, who had been not more than five feet in front of her, had vanished. Miranda looked around to see if she had just missed him duck into a doorway or cross the street. But that's impossible, she thought, I was staring at his back one second, and the next second he just wasn't there. What's going on?

A voice from behind her spoke, “Quit following me.” Miranda spun around but no one was there except for an elderly man twenty feet away, inching his way up the sidewalk.

Miranda knew the voice belonged to the man in the plaid shirt. She wanted to see him, to talk to him. She wanted to tell him that she knew had a secret, that she did, too, and that he shouldn't be ashamed of it or scared of other people. She wanted to tell him something reassuring and eloquent. All she managed to squeeze out was a frightened “Hello?”

“Quit following me,” repeated the disembodied voice, a little more stern this time, and from the other direction. Miranda spun again. There was no one near her.

“I . . . I . . . saw what you did,” stuttered Miranda. There was no response. “Hello?” Still nothing. Miranda stood for a while listening while people walked by. Miranda sighed. I messed this one up. I should have just said something. “Sorry I creeped you out,” she said mostly to herself. She turned to walk back. Where was I even going before all this? she wondered.

“What do you want?” asked the man in the plaid shirt, suddenly standng next to Miranda. His face was serious, and his eyes were fixed on hers.

She yelped, stumbled sideways, and fell on her backside. “Holy shit! You scared me.” Even this reaction was somehow fairly nonchalant, given the circumstances.

A charmingly devilish grin spread across Plaid Shirt's face at Miranda's startled but calm composure, then it disappeared as quickly as he had. He returned to wearing a scowl. “No one will believe you if you told them. I didn't rob him anyway,” he stated.

“What?” Miranda tried to calm her fluttering heart.

“I didn't rob that guy in the store, he gave me the money. I didn't use a gun or even threaten him.”

“I didn't mean that.” Miranda looked up. “Can you help me up?” she asked, still shaken by the disappearing/reappearing act.

Plaid Shirt cautiously offered his hand to Miranda. She grabbed it, and he began to hoist her up. She weighed a lot more than he had expected. She held on to his hand even after she was up and the began to shake it, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”

“My name's, uh, Thomas,” he said suddenly looking much less angry and much more nervous. Thomas couldn't tell whether this girl was a threat or not. Her politeness and amazingly relative calm about his invisibilty stunt made him want ot lower his defences. But doubtful thoughts entered his mind, Why was she folling me? What does she want? He looked at her face and suddenly realized how pretty she was. His eyes couldn't hold her gaze, and he looked down at her shoes. She has cute shoes. Miranda smiled in her eyes and let go of his hand.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

I Haven't Forgotten

I thought that I would just let my faithful readers (if there are any) know that I haven't been completely neglecting to post, I've been working on a couple posts, but they are still in draft form. I'll try getting one, if not both, of them polished and ready to post by tonight.

Circa Now