Living Sin

Living Sin

"Hey, I've missed you. You've been gone the last three times I was here."

"Oh, well, I wasn't here yesterday."

"Well Saturday I got here before you came in, and the other times you were getting your teeth worked on, right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I missed you terribly." I gave her my best smile. She gave me a very nice one back. "My lunchtime is utterly devoid of meaning or joy without you, you know."

She turned her head with a funny smile.

"You're not buying this shit, are you?"

"No." We both laughed.

She's so cute.

Her hair seemed longer, fuller. Always tied back, sometimes very creatively, this time in a straight ponytail. Beautiful. I really want to see her with her hair down. I have little daydreams of her on top of me, that long dark brown curtain falling around my face...mmm...

Got through work fine, though it seems to be fucking with my back more. It seems the packages are getting heavier, and I know my shoes are about shot to hell. I'm lucky that I get to move around with the particular job I do, most of the jobs there are stuck in one place, which would totally fuck me up 8 hours a day. The only person who sits on his ass for any length of time is, of course, the supervisor.

Got a sandwich at a Circle K after buying gas. Whoever makes the plastic bags these things come in can LICK MY HAIRY SCROTAL SACK. I was biting, tearing, chewing. Fuck, I should have eaten the damn plastic and got the fiber.

Of course, i'm doing this while trying to get onto I-70 West. I was A DANGER TO MYSELF AND OTHERS. You could give me two pints of bourbon and I'd have been a safer driver than I was trying to open a goddamn plastic wrapper on a fucking shitty chicken salad sandwich. I was about to pull over and spare the rest of the planet my idiot driving when the bag finally started to come open. I ate the shit while cranking up Robin Trower's Twice Removed From yesterday. Good music for just before the sun goes down. Hannah, let me love you...

Listening to Brian Eno right now. Here Come The Warm Jets. Essential shit, boys and girls.

Last night I was going up I-465 to teach and listening to Neil Young's Greendale. He was singing the line "a little love and affection in everything you do, will make the world a better place with or without you." I was reflecting on this. Wow. What a nice sentiment. I aspire to this. I want to have love and affection in everything *I* do.

That's when some rat bastard psychotic in a semi veered right into my lane, nearly taking me out with the back end of his oversized road-clogging, oil-guzzling piece of fucking SHIT.

"Cocksuckingfuckface shitbrainassfuckCUNTHAIR! "

I slammed it to the left and hit the gas, rolling down the window to scream "ASSHOOOOOOOOOOOLE!" like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda. As if Trucker Boy could hear me over the Toby Keith tape in the truck at 70MPH.

So much for a little love and affection in everything I do, eh? Fucking shithead cocksmoker cuntfaced rat bastard assmunch fucknose dickstain.

Ahhh, Curse Therapy. I'll be publishing my book on it soon. Curse Therapy: Mental Health Through Motherfuckerology. Coming soon to a fine bookstore near you;. Fucker.

Tonight I saw the lawyer.

Oh. My. God.

She came in a few minutes early. I'm used to her hair beng a certain way. But I've also noticed a drastic shift in wardrobe each time I've seen her, so it shouldn't be a surprise to see the hair different too. It's normally short and straight. This time it was curled a bit. She had on lipstick and nail polish. i've seen her in basic slacks/blouse, sweats with glasses on, a striped business suit. Tonight it was jeans and T-shirt, with a green open shirt over it that looked like something you'd buy at a Salvation Army store. but it looked COOL. With the curlier hair...wow...this girl is an ATTORNEY? Shit, I wanna cross the Mojave and take acid with HER on the way to Vegas.

"You changed your hair!"

"Yeah! Do you like it?" Perky.

"Yes!"

"I've got a date tonight!"

Fucking shit...

"That's great. Good luck." I tried to be excited for her. Hey, that's what you do when you actually give a shit about somebody. Be happy for them. But I had to tell myself that three or four or seventy times.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, you look great tonight." That was about as watered-down a way as I could think of saying "Jesus Christ, I want to eat your pussy."

"Thank you!" Big smile. Warm eyes. Genuinely thankful. As if what *I* thought actually meant something to her. Imagine that. I haven't crossed the line yet. Thank Christ. I've gotta keep it together on this one.

She met him on match.com. I told her I've had no luck there. She looked sympathetic, asked me a few fairly personal questions, seeming very interested in my post-divorce psyche. (We established briefly the night we met that we were both going through relationship-endings.) I told her as honestly as I could the answers. She seems very comfortable. Very friendly. She LIKES me. She makes me feel like I might actually be a semi-decent human being, for fuck's sake. I don't really get anything from her beyond that, but she is VERY cool and dammit, I like her a FUCK of a lot. The vibe off her is amazing. I could power this goddamn city for a month with the electricity she shot through me in that half hour.

And she's a STUDENT. I feel totally out of place saying ANYTHING to her that she doens't instigate herself.

When she left, I spent half an hour trying to keep from exploding all over the guitars on the wall. The guys heard me say "Fuck, she's beautiful!" about seventy-four times. They think I should ask her out. I think they're insane. Until I get a clear signal from her (which I'm NOT expecting) I can't violate a teacher/student relationship, no matter how cool and understanding and interesting and all that other stuff she is. Fuck. She's making my internal organs turn to pudding, but it just feels WRONG to say a goddamn thing. I HATE this shit. It feels good, strong, pure. Maybe even BETTER than with Amanda. I mostly just want to look into her soft yet knowing eyes and hear her talk about what it's like to be such a cool, open-minded, liberal young lady into punk and folk-rock, who hates the system, yet works right in the middle of it every day. Her whole vibe, her edgy-yet-totally-relaxed- and-in-control-of-herself personality CAPTIVATES me, and this is long before we even get to how much I want to fuck her. Fucking might actually be about number seven on my list of things to do with her. That NEVER happens with me. Why the fuck do the ones I actually have healthy emotions towards always be the ones I can't POSSIBLY have? God-fucking DAMMIT.

I drove down I-465 listening to more Trower. Stopped near the apartment at a 24-hour diner and got breaded mushrooms and vegetable soup, and read some more from the Hunter Thompson biography I'm working through at a snail-shit pace.

He could be a true bastard. Some of the stories about his early years make my skin crawl. It's interesting to think about how many of my heroes were so utterly flawed.

But the part that stuck with me the most tonight was reading about when he heard that Ernest Hemingway had died. Hunter idolized him,. Suicide. In his 60s. Shotgun blast to the head. Hunter is quoted as saying that he felt Hemingway had given all he had to give, that he was too sick to keep writing, and decided to end it.

I nearly cried. Damn you, Hunter. I wish you were still with us.

Home. Listening to ELP's Trilogy. Wanting to write more, but I'm fucking tired. Goodnight,you lovely people.

Love,
Dougie