Updating my poop
I blink when I think of it. It seems that it should have been cold cause I could see so many stars. Not that I ever paid attention to stars, mind you. Anything I see with my eyes, everything that I see with my eyes is at the same time overwhelming and boring as hell. Explaining that, after proper hallucinogenic experiences (which includes excessive television viewing, as well as illegal substances) extravagant visual images become less potent because you realize that in all actuality you are presented with one at every moment of your life. So either you walk around in a constant dazed amazement or you re-grow that sort of numbness that pervaded unknowingly on the pre-drugged mind. Except now. Now you are just a little bit less forgetful of that numbness. That numbness that has its roots in all of our learned behavior. An Emotional Callous.
So I blink to think of the snakes and scorpions which weren’t there. It was in sand on a desert. On sand in a desert, we walked and I sung ‘The Ants Go Marching On’ because I had absolutely nothing to say and I was alone with this girl.
Why was I writing this? In my memory there are only two colors other than black or white. There is the brand new blue jeans navy blue of the sky, and the scorpion shit-brown of the desert sands. We were supposed to find each other attractive. Her eyes were on someone else. Maybe I was saying hello to the ‘goodbye’ to the adolescent drive to fuck. Maybe I was just so lonely that I didn’t want to be around anyone. It just served to remind me.
We had climbed to the windy and precarious top of one of those large, strange rocks, which give so many boring towns an excuse for a park. This rock was fifty feet high with a big hole in the center. It had some gay (happy) name, like ‘Keyhole’, or ‘Eagles Eye rock’. We talked about something. Gee I did this and You did that. I remember looking at the picnic tables under the stone shelter, down in the sprinklered park area. It had those lovely bronze incandescents, and whatever color the table originally was, it had been transformed into a fairy tale version. How could I be so bored and nervous at the same time? God, that is the condition of my life, bored and nervous.
She was eighteen and she was in love with a forty-year old man who lived in a trailer park and went door to door on roller-blades selling homemade water filters. That sort of lifestyle was a bit hard for me to compete with (this is a true story by the way, that’s why the end will disappoint you). I remained very insecure with myself until my middle twenties. Her ass was a little big, but she drove a Karmann Ghia. She had a pretty face, and she always seemed very happy, if not exactly interested in what I had to say.
I was breaking a beautiful sixteen year old’s heart in Kentucky. The stupid bitch had the audacity to bore me with unquestioning love. That stupid bitch made me feel very guilty and bad.
So neither of us were in the mood, and so nothing happened.
And this happens to me more often than romance.