They are mostly gone. 1 & 2.

1.

Some television with knobs

two

sits in the corner and protects me

from the poodle that is going to attack while

I dig my nails into a carpet that runs

under a wall and into a house where

I

Alone

decide I need pink chalk bullshit medicine for my tummy

and the oozy insides of some long prickly leaf to dull the burn on my skin from being outside

chasing cars

little girls in skirts

and this boy who has a toy I want

and a nest of wasps that some poor kid would die from fucking with in the movies.

Don't make fucking eye contact with the poodle.

Steal the soap from under the sink and pour it into the gas tank of my lawnmower

cuz we all need some goddamn bubbles

and that girl in the blue skirt will only look at me then.

Blonde hair.

Big grin.

Boy muscles.

Pushes that lawnmower so fast the bubbles don't even fucking show up.

The blue skirt girl doesn't either.

She is mostly gone.

They are mostly gone.

2.

"What about your frustration levels?"

Buy a lunch you can't afford and steal

french fries from a guy you admire for reasons you will never

admit or understand but appreciate that his plan is a plan and your plan is not dying.

"Or you'll have an emotional breakdown..."

Let tears well up enough that if you didn't have glasses on someone would ask about them.

The glasses, of course. Not the tears.

Keep the glasses.

Avoid the questions.

"We're good on trips, right"

There was a video of a river from really high up with no sound.

Be that river.

Be that video.

Be that answer to the question that says which person you know will be the mostly like to..

"You call at the worst times."

You can count on your arm the things left from that very first

house,

You.

Some combination of money, love, cat poison, personal safety, old age, the environment, social improvement systems and your own bullshit ideals leave just you.

That house is mostly gone.

You are mostly gone.

This is your regret, backwards

Exhale.

Turn the key.

Turn some song up about someone else louder than you can bear.

Scratch at your skin.

Get in your car.

Walk outside.

Pound your drink.

Eye fuck gently those blue eyes over there.

Sip.

Practice makes perfect.

Eye fuck the shit out of the painting on the wall.

Sip.

Inhale.

(fuck. you accidentally exhaled. you weren't ready. the room wasn't ready. this isn't how it was supposed to be. it is ok. no one noticed. sneak this one in.)

Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.

Sip.

Fix your bangs.

Scratch your nose.

Sip.

Count ex-lovers on your phone.

Count ex-lovers in the pool.

Sip.

Pick at the shit in your teeth.

Pick apart the man leaning next to the fireplace.

Pick apart the woman in that short dress.

Sip.

Dart your eyes around the room.

Inhale.

heartburn

It was 11:35 one night, and I was standing in the middle of some street. It was a slow residential type of road. The moon was out, I could see whatever part of it it felt like showing me between a street light and the branches of a tree. I was smoking a cigarette. I'm pretty sure I was falling in love.

It is always one or the other: fall in love or fall out. I keep it going, the cycle, to be consistent, to keep someone happy, to make sure the bets keep paying out.

I talk all of the time. When I'm not talking I am thinking. When it isn't that it is this, or some song, or some poem or story. I always have something to say. Always.

At 11:35 that night I had nothing.

(I am exhausted right now. I'm taking 36 second cat naps. My eyes are burning from the combination of old cigarette smoke, no sleep and thinking about this. It must come out)

I was destroyed at that moment. There were valleys of thought, mountains of feelings, rivers of, well, rivers of everything. It was a strange feeling.

Because I couldn't tell anyone about it. I didn't know how. Fuck. I don't know how to tell anyone about it now.

I know this:

Worse case scenario: this is the last time I ever feel like this again.

Best case scenario: it isn't.

I miss my inside joke about sandwiches that only I got. I miss the routines of car trips and parking permits. I miss my secret life and my not so secret life.

And I miss that night on the street. At least the way the air felt on my skin. And you being so close and so far away.

07/07/07 = the luckiest day created by an asshole in a coat

It is one o clock in the morning. Or close enough for the people on espn.com to say that nothing good happens after midnight. I used to disagree. Tonight, I don't.

We (myself and Bill, as BOOTH!) played a show today. It went really well. My dad showed up. He lives in Texas, but he was in town. He has never seen us before. He seemed to enjoy it.

Now here is where the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan.

Super easy version (for the people who have the same skill in math as I do). Me + Beer + Sun + Daddy Issues + Ex + New Girl I am Dating + Small Anarcho-Collective Bullshit + Music + No Interest = 07/07/07

Super long crazy version. Show up at my house with a 12 pack, we'll talk.

So I leave the bar, drive drunk, come home, sleep. See Crystal my roommate, talk about things, sleep again. I wake up to walk into my backyard to see Adam, a friend who does piercing who I really like, his crazy girlfriend, a girl from Riverside, and my ex sitting in my backyard. Everyone else is MIA.

My roommates just showed up, with Robert. The girl I am dating is on her way. The guy my ex went on a date with at Maxdon's is here. So are some rad folks from Riverside. I just put on my Kevlar vest.

Here's to 07/08/07 being more filled with shit than 07/07/07.

Oh luckiest day in history, I hardly knew thee.