27 and single

A hundred years ago . . .

I remembered an old Roxette song called “Sleeping Single” last night as I was about to hit the sack.  It goes, “Sleeping single I will wait for you . . . “.  Sure.  It sounds so moronic if you take it out of the boundaries of written English and toss with your emotional pushes.  You’re NOT single but you constantly gropple on the mischievously scalding experience of waiting for the ONE you love.  Isn’t it amazing how insatiable man can become?  Well, I hate waiting and amid all the patience that I earned over years, I still feel like it is a waste of my fucking time.          Have you ever read a Dostoevsky novel?  The vastness of the Russian writer can be the one thing that expires the restoration of the usual waiting game.  It is an experience of a lifetime though like I couldn’t sleep after reading Notes From Underground but if you are to wait for your lover, over clean fresh sheets and a pack of newly-bought condoms on a good night, you’d rather sleep soundlessly than to experience the neurosis of the man who have lived in the underground for thirty years, wrathful and sensitive to every human default.  Mmm, come to think about it, waiting for your lover to come by and spend some time with you makes you want to rewrite Like Water For Chocolate but inspired not by how it goes up to a maximum boiling point but how much ratio of water you must put to aggravate the thick cocoa and eventually have it explode straight to your face!  I must say that will bring me back to earth (brown clad and scalded good) and realize how much time I’ve wasted reading Dostoevsky (but I really loved Sons and Lovers) and waiting for my beautiful lover come home either to have his nails cut or to have myself be rimmed.  Whatever.

You are my journal now so all apologies.

So, I went out with my friend, the Prozac god, last night for some real nice “kabza” and roasted chicken and ate in absolute silence with him.  So came the idea how much at ease I am with him, in tears and hard laughter, even in pure eating silence.  I know this may sound abrupt and sinewy but I guess I believe that friendship can be really tested on how much you can actually endure silence together without worrying about the other party getting bored with you and vice versa.  Maybe because silence is more like watching the sun go down or stargazing like conversations are more into the space techno sound pumping in and out of your dancing anatomy and you share the sun or the stars with somebody very comforting.  Orbiting around soul language.

I have working hard this past week.

I also have been lacerated good.

I still believe that God is watching over my sins but come to think about it, the last sin I did was when I thought Julia Roberts didn’t deserve that Oscar.  God is being a glitz practitioner these days I guess.  OH but I miss God.  My friend the Fire just told me he is back to praying and that it is working well with him.  I wish I could do the same and I wish it could still work for me.  So, when was my last prayer?  Damn, I can’t remember . . . oh yeah, when my friend Red bought me the crucifix from Cairo.  I prayed for my Yamen and me.  For longevity and more “sense” inside our ficket fence.

(Not tonight, Josephine!)

It is a Friday and I am working.  I might go out tonight with my new lawyer friend for some coffee and newspaper talk.  I am slept and feeling frantically normal.

On second thought, masturbation is still fun to do . . . for the meantime.


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