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Lounging About In My Own Fluids before/after In the gym on monday, there was a fat couple working out. Now, I'm all for fat people working out. I see absolutely nothing wrong with it. In fact, I think its a good thing. But this was a lark for them or something. They were really fat. And I turned my head at one point, to see the guy doing that one universal guy thing, where he grabs his woman from behind, and grinds his pelvis into her ass. We all do it. I can't explain why. (perhaps I should stop) But it grossed me out. Then they started making out. *slim! hey slim! hey! slim! cut it out! I'm tryin' ta eat over here!* In another thought, I think girls do themselves a disservice when they try to figure out if they have a relationship going, or if their guy loves them. You know, or you don't. Corner the dude. If he says no, move on. He'll be sad, don't worry. And everyone will find what they are looking for. It really is that simple. I probably shouldn't say something like that, 'cause we all tend to exploit the gray area. *you don't even know if he LIKES you yet* My dad started coughing tonight, sounding like he vomited or something. "Are you all right?" I asked. He made a squelching sound from the front room. So I walked over. And he's sitting there, quiet, still, like nothing had happened. "So that was a 'yes'?" He nodded his head. Looked fine. Clean. No worries. A couple of hours later I walked in and talked to him, noticing a big brown spot on this sweatshirt I gave him for his birthday one year. He spewed on his shirt and just sat in it. For hours. What the fuck, dude? *that's what they want! that's what they want! and you, you slob, you slob...* I shouldn't say shit, really. Back in the day, which in this instance means "college", or rather "college the first time around" I used to carouse a lot. My room would fill up with girls who would want to hear me play guitar. Or perhaps that was the pretense, who knows with the ways of woman. And I'd just sit there and drink. Then I was pretty much a hardened alchoholic. Every great once in a while, I would take a healthy chug of jack daniels and cough it onto my self, and just play it off. They'd laugh. "Are you just gonna' wear that shirt?" "Yes." And then I'd play guitar and all my sins would be forgiven. The best one was one time I was on this really wicked LSD. I got all cramped up inside my head, with sensations whirling about and thoughts racing at a mile a minute. My heart pounded, my stomach turned. I was in a car, seatbelted in, sitting in the parking lot while a friend of mine went in to buy beer. Feeling it coming, I opened the car door and puked my guts out. A long line of spittle, bile, and mucus hung from my mouth. Passersby stopped and looked. "Is someone gonna' help him?" a passerby asked her companions. This moved me. The last think I needed was a sober person coming to help me while I dawdled in the electric haze of LSD. From there its a short trip to the police, and a whole lot of people shining bright lights into my eyes. And then the worst out come of them all, the hospital. Strapped down, big bright lights and weird smells, people standing way too close and peering intently into my eyes. Needles. Masks. So I took my shirt, which I called my "jacob's shirt of many colors", and wiped my mouth with it, yack and all. Closed the door, and sat back into the car, waiting. Feeling much better, really. The shirt was purple, beige, white, black, and navy blue striped. Really it could go either way, either a decent looking shirt if worn with attitude, or simply hideous. But hell, I was in college. One finds oneself wearing all kinds of shit when you're broke. Later in the night, after several strange events, I was sitting in a friend's room under black light, and then I actually thought about it. I had been wearing my yack all night, and no one called me on it. I looked at it under the UV. Yep, still there. So, I'm not innocent when it comes to lounging in my own fluids. But hell, man. Make an effort.
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