2 -jabarisaga.blogspot.com

I wasn't there when she came home the last time. I realized later on just what I may have missed out on. Finding the seats of every pair of my pants had been singed off with a rusting iron was a cruel nursery rhyme in irony. Well at least the house had kept, albeit warmer, darker, more charred. See that's the problem with an ill-used appliance. Despite it's inanimacy and general lack of breath, it always tends to personify itself in the worst ways. In this case as an amature arsonist. The good news is, for every thing I cherished that perished in the fire, there was at least one picture of her face and one beatles album I'll never be listening to again that burned as well.

Perhaps she actually set me free. I know I've already spoken these words to my lame duck friends, the ones that hang off of my successes as if suckling from my supple teet, but perhaps there is validity in the oft-used phrase. It seems to be another cliche I picked up from countless hours of chick flicks or soap operas, or some other shit I dutifully watched in hopes of getting laid, but I do believe my entire world was set free by her leaving me. Or more correctly, by her torching my apartment.

I still live there, and the increase in space has been well welcomed though prostitutes now have begun to suspect I'm married, being that I'm too ashamed to bring them home, and settle for the motel, or when I'm worst off, a storage locker I rent down by the docks. I find that while many of them find the latter unorthodox, they are silent in appreciation of the familiarity or its confines.

1 -jabarisaga.blogspot.com

I'm well known for my flirtatious nature. Have been for years. No rational woman will touch me with a ten foot pole, knowing that while I sweet talk them, I keep two others close at hand, just in case. This is not to say that all is lost for me in terms of romance; that is just not so. But I have noticed a trend in which my flirting tends to lure in the most naive of women. It's wrong, I'm sure, but I see no adverse effect on my karma. If anything, things seem to go too well.

Every morning I flirt with death. Not right when I wake up. No, I rise normally, shower and shave. I make enough coffee for two, knowing that half of it will go to waste. I take my coffee black. Always black. I thought at one time, that drinking black coffee made me somewhat of a badass, a rogue. Of course, I come to find now that not only does nobody else care, but now I can't shake the stuff. If I miss my coffee for the day, well then I might as well leave for work without pants - I'm distracted, jittery - completely the opposite of what less caffeine should do to my system.

When I leave my apartment in the morning, I lock up. Though sometimes I don't, just to see if anything is missing when I come home. But once I've left the building, routine is over. I cannot possibly make the walk to work sobered. Too mundane. The same people pass everyday - the same buildings - the same towering reflection off of the glass of the coffee shop; at first I thought it was brilliant, now I wish one day the tower would disappear, so I could see the sky behind it. To pass the time, I play games with myself. Count blue ties, count tourists, predict who got laid last night. I guess I don't rightly know if I ever win or not, but since I never know the outcome, I always feel victorious.

My favorite distraction would have to be what I call blind walking. It's not so much that I would want to be blind, but more so that I want to know that if I were, I could continue. Added bonus goes to the fact that every day, I'm just a little closer to mistepping. One step closer to an end of the mundane and beginning of the extraordinary. Each morning, as I begin to cross the first crosswalk I face, and with each subsequeant one, I simulate blindness - and see how far I can go without getting clipped. Or more correctly having someone alert me to the fact that I'm veering into the street. People care so much - it's honestly curious.

These people don't know my face, they don't know my name. And if they did, I doubt they'd be inclined to introduce themselves. Yet when faced with the prospect of watching my wayward body splashed across the pavement, they interfere. Far be it to me to say their motives are selfish - I mean, they did save me - but how much of their assistance is truly to keep me from certain harm, and how much is to appease their conscience. How many people have watched someone, albeit a total stranger, die? How many could go on with the next day? With the same routine? Not to say I have - I'm not in the mood for reliving the past - but I know that I could.