I'll think of England this time

Of late, the mewling kittens of self-pity have been stealing forth, begging sympathy rubs for supine bellies. The canines of maturity mostly scattered their kind, but arrived a bit late to the summons and only triumphed after some indulgence. This has been my weekend, the sort that makes Higher Powers snort in disgust. But I've become adept at turning a black collar to the trifling miseries (spared, for now, from visits by the elder sister), and am in no sense waylaid, though it's my shame to confess that to certain logic, the battle wages still. I have not grown up.

There's nothing of real consequence to report, but I'll share this quick anecdote from the new secretary affair. Please reference old entries for background.

Thursday or Wednesday, I can't remember which, I approached to deliver the afternoon mail when I noticed a platter of assorted fruit in neat display on her desk. Voicing my approval, I plucked a strawberry. In the ensuing transcript, I continue my old practice of using the sobriquet "Marissa" for my co-star, which is rather unfortunate because I don't like the name or any of its bearers.


Me: Ooh, can I have a kiwi too?

Marissa: Of course. You can even have a plate.

Me: (growing uncomfortable at the prospect of passing our five-line conversational record, and moving away) No, that's fine. I prefer to eat with my hands. It's a family thing.


As to the origin of that line, I couldn't begin to guess. It's not particularly funny, just odd, and only served to further her impression of my idiocy. I bet if she keeps a blog, she has a running theme of awkward encounters with the strange guy at work.*

*EDITOR'S NOTE: This is a clear case of wishful thinking on the part of the author, symptomatic of self-centered behavior and verging on egomania. In truth, probability suggests that the secretary does not keep a blog, and, even if she did, would not have made one mention of the author, on whom she did not waste a second thought on the day in question, or any occasions previous or subsequent. **

**NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: The editor in question is a fabrication of the author, and should be viewed as further support for the solipsistic accusation, and not as new policy on the part of Google, Blogger, or any Google affiliates to revise, amend, or in any way interfere with the production of the still-sovereign blog community.***

***AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you, Google, for standing up for the common interest of the blogging community, and reminding activist editors that their judgments and assumptions have no place in the domain of the powerful, self-governed individual.****

****NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: Please note, again, that the author and editor are one and the same person.******

*****EDITOR'S NOTE: Oh, are we?******

******NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: Yes.*******

*******AUTHOR'S NOTE: Then how do you explain this!********

********NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: The text following the italicized word displayed such unexpected levels of profanity that, for the first time ever, we've actually broken our promise and edited a blog. We can tell you that the author in no way proved his separate identity from the editor, and we can also promise that this is the last time we'll make such a move. As a show of good faith, we include the end of the author's note, which, believe it or not, is considerably more sensical and less offensive than the bulk of the rant.

END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE: ...so you can take your FUCKING NEW YORK QUEER MORALS, along with every GODDAMNED OUNCE OF BUREAUCRATIC GYPSY SHIT, and shove it so FUCKING FAR UP YOUR OWN UNMENTIONABLES that you get it STUCK somewhere between your BASTARDIZED search engine and the WHORE OF A MOTHER who reared you in Silicon WHATEVER-THE-FUCK valley in the middle of DOUCHE-TOWN, USA, population YOU BUNCH OF SHIT HEAD SCUMBAGS.


Nothing else occurs to me at the moment. Tomorrow through Friday, the opening round of the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS will be waged in this very blog. Begin rubbing your palms together vertically in cartoonish spectacles of excitement.

Lastly, a Quick Poem for a Homeless Man I Saw on the Street This Morning

Overcast and in the nook
aloft, a cardboard sign: I'm Hungry.
The girl enlists your twisted head-
dirty, damp, and tensed with shouts
I can't hear for a Purple Bottle's
tones, but I relate until
the man from Cuba's cardboard sign
speaks to quandaries unresolved
and understood by those like you
or the insane, but not by us-
and not on days like these, so long.