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.