The Chosen One must speak on this,

I've never believed in Fate. Destiny is the illusion of Retrospect: The trick of looking at things as they are now, and, through hind-site, experiencing the events as a preplanned narrative; forgetting the paths we could have taken and the choices we decided against.

The things we do set-up the changes we will experience down the line; the Outcome is determined not by Divinity, but by Decisions. If you push one domino against another, in all likelihood it will cause the entire line to fall. But there is nothing that says that you *have* to knock them over; there is nothing that says you can’t stop the chain of Effect.

The dominoes fall because of a conscious decision to push them and the resulting outcome of collapse, and not because they were destined to do so.

But face it: dominoes are no fun if left to gather dust. While there is always a choice, some choices are just more fun than others.

All you need is one little push . . .

And everything starts falling into place.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

If not for the situation behind the Situation, I wouldn’t be so upside-down. But when you waste half a day, waiting in line for new identification, only to get a call from your supervisor fifteen seconds before your turn is a fantastic indication of a terrible situation.

Ominous waves cascaded over me the instant I walked into the building. His office looked like something out of The Sting, with desks cobbled together with balsa and the carpets freshly stripped. It was Fannie Mae, right until the bailout check cleared. I felt like I should have brought a case of money and a safe place to stash The Goods, instead of . . . well, cupcakes, I guess. Or booze. Cupcakes and/or booze. “If you’re going to go out, go out right.”

Turns out, all the haggling and snaggling to get me into this position Right Away, was for naught: the heads of the contract, the Parent Company, had altered the Scenario. All the requirements that I had met previously were no longer the requirements, and all the skills and abilities I had honed were no longer sufficient for what could and would be considered a mindless Monkey Job.

He offered only scare eye-contact and only the barest of improvised lip service. I knew I was being lied to, at a base level. It wasn’t that I wasn’t qualified. It was that the Parent Company, the Great Contract Owners, had a straggler or two left over. And, with no place to seat them, they decided to throw me under the bus. After all, I hadn’t even been with them for two hours. Where was the harm?

So there I was, out in the cold without so much as a loincloth for protection. I should have been incensed. I would have been, too, had the same maneuver been pulled by *my* company several months earlier, for *my* benefit. But that’s what you get when you’ve situated yourself as a cog in the Military Fascist Device: In the jungle of Military Contracts, it’s every man for himself.

It's been a fancy ride up until now: Smells and sights and the occasional color. I’m unemployed now; unemployed, hopefully, for the time being. I had a job for almost two hours, if it's anything (which, incidentally, it's not). Now I have all the time to accomplish all the nothings I'd been missing these past two years.

Unfortunately, my budget no longer provides me a buffer for the slacking I'd really like to do. A long-planned Florida vacation bled me nearly-clean. Living beyond my means, assuming that I'd have the means to live when I returned, is the first and worst way to die. Nothing is guaranteed, not even a Guarantee. Mussolini taught us that, right before Patton drove into his palace, offering free colonoscopies. Sometimes you have to relearn the Hard Lessons the Hard Way, all over again.

Riding the pendulum all the way around, but, for some reason, my Spider Senses are quiet. Like none of this is happening; like I'm not even here. It's possible that the Cosmic Me knows something that I don't. It's a greater likelihood that it hasn't sunk in.

Then again, I've been nose-deep in five kinds of sugar. Baking is my Zen Garden. Nothing relaxes me like baking. Cookies. Cakes. Nuns. Politicians. If it can go in an oven, I can make it; and if I can’t make it, I can ruin it in a brilliant and unrecognizable fashion. When you’re buried inside a Box of Calm, there’re very few items than can break through. Possible eviction? Destitution? Resorting to prostitution to make ends’ meat? These are not among those. Don’t even register. Not even a dent.

The tunnel has a light at the end of it, if it’s any consolation. I’m meeting a job contact for coffee and conversation in the Too Early of tomorrow. It’s a candle, but it’s a light. All it needs is a little gasoline and a gentle breeze.

Coffee and cigarettes and mild delusions: Thursdays have a subconscious appeal in this sense. If not, well, I guess I’ll have enough time to finish those cannolis.

Thursday will tell.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

Ti~~~~~red.

Sleep-depravation. Mental faculties taxed. Weary. Too much on my mind. Too many thoughts clamoring at once – choking the synaptic pathways. Am I finding all the wrong “Whys,” or am I asking all the wrong questions?

Bed – mm, so cozy. No sleep for the wicked, though. It’s the march into May for me, and I’ve miles to go before I sleep. So I’ll endlessly stream my consciousness until I get to where I need to be.

I’ll close my eyes for another minute: There, I see a smile. The smile warms me; the smile cures. A Cheshire Cat grin with a Madame Curie glow. It’s warm under the blankets; cozy behind the eyelids. So hard to let them go. So hard to leave that smile.

Rain gathers and readies itself for the fall. I rise and ready myself for the drive.

It’s going to be another Thursday.

. . . Aw, fuck it! [smashes alarm clock and goes back to sleep]


* * * * *


It's when you can't have something that you *re~~ally* want it.

Right now I'd murder a small bus load of clowns for a cigarette. But I can't, because this damndable canker sore hurts like S&M and smoking will only exacerbate it (that and a few other reasons pertaining to exercising and gasping like a beached trout when I'm doing it). Which is tragic, because the nicotine numbs the pain.

Short-term misery versus long-term relief.

I think I'll get a drink instead.


* * * * *


I've been obsessing about a few things these past couple days. Well, really just one or two things, but they seem fairly obsessable. Thing is, I hate obsessing. Obsession leads to exaggerating the situation, which prompts desperation, and ends with exhasperation followed closely by excommunication. I tred a tricky track. Must not let go to the railing of common sense.

All will work out in the end. Whether or not they work out like I'd want them to is another matter, which requires vigilance and visualization. I remain hopeful -- I haven't been given much to worry over yet.

[raises drink] Here's hoping for the Best-Case Scenario. If not that, then at least the Best-for-Me Results.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

You’ll never guess who got back in touch with me?

That’s right. The Hurricane herself! After a two year hiatus abroad, ravaging coastlines unseen, she’s swept back into my Doppler Field – no alarm, no warning, not even so much as a darkening of the clouds – with a bit of her wind taken out of her blow but still no less frothing. Could it be that she’s been downgraded to Tropical Storm? Or is there more to her than meets the eye? What dark motives does she have? What secrets does she hide? And who is that intimidating midget lurking in the shadows? Tune in next week for the next exciting episode of Atomic Ex-Girlfriends from Behind the Iron Curtain!

Is it a trend? I think this could be a trend. This is becoming a trend. No, scratch all that, this is a trend. A trend, a pattern; clues at the scene of a soon-to-be crime. Ever since Redhead McCrazyton moved away, I’ve been tossed into Plot Twist after soap opera-ish Plot Twist. Twosomes; threesomes; eightsomes; a Noah’s Ark of womanly degenerate possibilities. And NOW! . . . This makes the THIRD ex-girl who has wafted back into my life in as many days! Seriously, it’s some kind of wave! “Dear Penthouse, I thought these things only happened in magazines, but never did I think it’d happen to me” scenarios dance in my head. Oh, it’s almost too much for one libido to handle – I may need to outsource this to some Asian lesbians.

Of course, I’m exaggerating the whole situation. Proportions are being blown left and right. For all I know, she could be IMing me out of some bizarre sense of priority. Unfinished Business, if you may. (Thankfully, the other Sequels have been . . . well, I don’t know about the rest of the audience, but *I’m* certainly enjoying these rethreading of old stories (provided, of course, they have better endings this time around. But I digress.))

Still, I’m reminded of an old proverb: “You can't do anything to make her want to come back. But somehow they know not to come back until you really forget. That is the rub.” She was the one who *really* hurt. She was my Charlie Nicholes (see “High Fidelity” for reference). When she left, I would’ve bitch-slapped the Pope (John Paul, not Captain Nazi-Pope) to get her back. I got over that, eventually. Then, eventually, I forgot why I wanted her back to begin with. Then, I forgot her, period.

And she knew to come back.

If the past is prologue, then I wonder what story these events are setting me up for.

Grab some popcorn and hurry on back. You’ll miss the best part.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

It’s been a busy week. Summary and summations and silly straws for everyone!

I’m a Pseudo-Uncle Today! A friend of mine just had his first child – Claire; 9lbs of Going-to-be-Socially-Awkward-ness. I got the call at 3am that the wifey had gone into labor; got a text at around 9am, trumpeting the triumphant arrival of the newest member of the Rank and File.

This comes on top of a fairly successful Saint Patrick’s Day. The poor boy and his very pregnant wife played chauffer to myself and my ne’er-to-well drunkard of a friend, The Beard. He and I, claiming “car trouble” had managed to cajole my ex-roommate into dropping us off at The Dublin Pub, wherein we drowned ourselves in Irish Car Bombs and Guinness and other such delicious drinks. It was a fantastic evening, marred slightly by our irritated observation of the distressing Hot Chicks to Ugly Dudes ratio (made more so distressing by the Hot Chicks *with* Ugly Dudes ratio. No exaggeration, we spied a man gargantuan enough to fit two girls into his pants with room to spare, *with* two girls who *were* trying to get into his pants. Dayton, where be thy standards?) Chatted with an old friend, ran into an old acquaintance, tore down the bar and lit the night on fire.

Of course, Beard, drinking three beers to my one, was ever the incontinent, but in a comical way – anything and everything we said was perceived as the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and he had become possessed by a Savant Obsession with hamburgers (ah~ drunken cravings, *there* be thy sting). My friend (now father to my pseudo-niece) took it all in good humor; his wife, on the other hand, maintained the patience of an exhausted woman who carrying a bowling ball strapped to her waist and had to endure a two hour drive with her husband’s drunken and hungry friends (“Officials were amazed at the amount of blood at the scene of the crime.”

Thankfully, I had a moment of foresight, and, at the last minute, managed to get Saint Hangover’s Day off. A fortuitous move on my part, considering I didn’t see the other side of my sheets until 5am. My luck continued to hold out – thanks to past experiences, I’d properly hydrated/drugged myself before bed, thus dodging the Hangover Bullet by mere inches (I was grazed, but unscathed).

In the car department, however, I’ve been less fortunate. The Beretta, while loyal and capable – having recovered from its Near Death Experience a few days ago – is well on its way to The Pasture. My newest car, similarly, is having some issues with its Air Intake Valve. Thankfully I have the kindness of friends to lean upon, and have been able to procure a Loaner Car while The Mean Green Machine is being hammered. Would have liked to patch up Baby, but, with Student Loans and other sundry bills chewing away at my hard-earned Surplus, the immediate short-term costs supersede the long-term benefits. A pity – it’s always done well by me, despite all the abuse I’ve forced it to endure. Though there’s little left to the old girl, she was, and still is, a good car. But far be it for me to get sentimental over an inanimate object. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Greeny will be a Lower Maintenance kinda girl. A cheapskate can hope.

My legs are going numb from blood-loss, and my stomach echoes like a cavern. Some cheeseburgers and a walk through the city may be in order. I think I shall take my exercise.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.