I was in the shower lathering up, as is standard for my showering routine.  I use a wash cloth for the most part but sometimes I just use the bar like how they do in the commercials.  I rub it all over and smile like I’m really refreshing my skin and that other stuff they say happens.  Like today, I go in to clean my ears and instead of using a pinky to really dig in there, I just take the corner of the bar (it was a new bar, pretty pointy) and I shove it right in there.  To a second party I’m sure it looked like I was trying to clean my very brain!  Hilarious, I know.  But the shame of it was I was all alone.  This was a perfect example of a moment that could’ve been extra special had I been able to experience it with someone.  But these moments, when they pass by unnoticed, are almost worthless.  An adorable tree fell in the forest by there was no heart there to love it.  Made me so sad I barely finished rubbing it out.

You see, every day I wind up doing these little special “gifts” that would really make a companion’s insides melt like cheese on nachos.  Nacho cheese even.  Like when I fart in bed and say “Get the sails up; this one’ll carry us around the Horn!”  I laugh myself to sleep with that one, but when I wake up I’m still by myself and the morning farts just smell like a stiff prairie wind a lonely cattle driver must feel out there probably.  Lonely camp fire with a coffee pot brewing and some harmonica music and a song about a lady that used to appreciate a well crafted flatulence-based nautical reference.  “Where have all the fine ass bitches gone?” is right, cowpoke.  Keep on wailing on that harp, buddy.  Maybe she’ll hear you.

I get really jealous, which everyone knows is a sign of remarkable passion.  I mean, I don’t get mad when guys say anything about girls I’m with because they’re just appreciating something that I’ve got like if I had a nice car or something.  Since I never had a really nice car, it makes me proud when guys stare at my girl or say something about my girl and her pieces or try to dance up on her when we go to Denny’s.  But so help me God if my girl doesn’t put up some kind of convincing resistance when that cook comes out and does that thing to her with his apron all up over his head, I’ll go and get a tire iron and bang it on all the pots and pans in his kitchen until my presence is TERRIFYING.  Yeah, motherfuckers, I’ll get ridiculous on the distractions and then grab my girl by the arm (around the bicep real strong like) and be all disappointed with her for a good duration of the evening.  But it’s about passion, which I’m not short on.  No sir.  I don’t see her put up a fight, I throw out all the ice cream and mail the Netflix back without even letting her watch it.  But since I don’t have anyone around and I really just wind up at Denny’s by myself most nights, this is all just hypothetical and untested.  Maybe I’d get nuts and punch a homeless guy just for asking her for change.  Maybe I’d throw all her shit into the pool if I found an old picture of her from prom.  Choke her a little to remind her who’s boss.  Who knows, really?

Oh, and when songs come on the radio, I make up fake lyrics.  Funny ones, like instead of “Come on, Eileen” I sing “Who wants ice cream?” and then we’d actually go and she’d stop crying.  Ice cream stops the crying when I go in my imagination and someone’s there with me.  Imaginary women aren’t fat and don’t get insulted when you offer to buy them an ice cream just because they’re crying from whatever happened right before I started singing.  I don’t know what happens with the real ones because nobody will give me and my adorable quirks a shot.

22/05/2007
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