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September 1, 2005 facter

Okay – I edited this entry a bit – please listen to this song whilst you are reading this next story – I basically used it as a soundtrack for it, and I believe it really fits in when you are reading it…

Colin Meloy – Jack the Ripper (Morrisey)

Crash In Two

You spend your afternoon listening to Morrisey. Not Morrisey as sung by Morrisey, but Morrisey as sung by the guy from the Decemberists – Colin Meloy. you listen to his rendition of the Ripper. The song that lasts and overbears.

So there you are, head to the computer monitor. You’ve been to lunch, had a few beers. You wanted more. Anything to dull the rest of the day. Every so often, you take some of those little turkish delight choc-ettes out of the bag and crunch down on them.

Why not. they’re edible.

You’re thinking of who this girl may be int he song – the one that crashes into your arms. The one who, like a normal regular fucked up Gemini (who the hell invented Geminis anyways? Great to fuck. Head to fuck. Head fucked and fuck you love them, dont you? the oxymoron of them? The Geminisisness?) cant accept and cant decide.

And all it really is, is that song. Oh, you look so tired. Mouth slack and white – but the only light is the light from fluoresence. Your boss is prowling around, and your stuckt here, thinking of imaginary fucking women. your thinking of that girl ont he bus, on the train. You’re thinking of the chick you dfidnt fuckign score with in ninth grade – you know, that embarrassing incident: yeah, you remember? you were both in the park, snogging – you didnt realsie you’d done it, but you’d pulled your own cock out and had it in your hand, and you came in the middle of the kiss. Right on those khaki pants of hers. But instead…

You jsut listen to the song. You dont agree and you dont refuse the words – because well, the real object of your afternoon, doesnt know you.

She sits three cubes down from you. he smiles at you, once or twice – but, but…

You presumje too much. you’re really not at your peak. Your getting older and shes a lot younger – more than a decade and your there, right near your fuckign computer – listening to someone else do the song that the other guy did thinking

“If its the last thing I’ll ever do, I’ll get you.”

There are cd’s on your desk. Paperwork. An empty container with left over bits of fuckin potato in it – left over because you cooked it for yourself. You cooked enough for two – but was there anyone there? Were you pretending to cook for one, two or three? You, Mr Palm and all those other hopes that relegated you to infirm obscurity?

Because, you know. You are. Obscure. You know it, but you cant help it. Your life is slack and white, ill advised – you tried making it. As Artist. As bar tender. You gave being a writer a go once as well, until you realised that no one ever really fucking listens. No one ever reads – and you sure as hell dont change lives, you dont change anything. None of it, ultimately matters. You’re jsut sitting there, in front of your god DAMN fucking computer going through specifications,. going through policies. Going through files upon files of lives and wasted dog eared pieces of governmental jism.

your boss prowls around again, asks you something. You cant hear him. You cant hear his voice – but you answer anyways, you say “Sure mate, no worries, I’ll get it done.”

And as the day wanes, you look forward to going home. You look forward to getting there, to opening the door to your cat. The one that loves you. The one that waits for you – who, in rare moments, gets on his back and awaits his little pats – and you’ll open the half-empty fridge, takea beer and sit outside, by yourself – because the cat has fucked off, and the guy on the television doesnt really count as a mate. You’ll sms a few people, wait for them to sms you back – text in, text out, text through the rain and downt he sewer.

But thats soon. Half an hour. Ten minutes. Five minutes.

You crane your neck around see the girl down the cube and she sees you looking, smiles a little. Yuo smile back, then break contact. You ahve two monitors in front of you, and the minutes tick away. You listent ot he song thats done by the guy who isnt the guy, and you cant help but wonder if you agree to refus.

I mean, its not like you’re hot. Its not like when you get home, anyone will call you. Its not like you’re cookign for anyone but you and maybe the fucking cat.

You get your bag., You begin to exit the building. You enter the elevator,a nd somehow, shes there – and shes crashing into you. Shes crashing into your arms – and for that fleet instance you know “god, I want you” but you cant say much more. you cant get the wrods out real well – and instead, you’re all

“Hey, sorry, hey, you okay”

Shes all like “Yeah, im cool, im good.” and there – right THERe is the fucking opening and your all

“Hey, i’m going to the pub after work tomorrow – you wanna come? Have a drink, have a…”

She doesnt know. She doesnt agree – she doesnt refuse. But you know it. Your no dj. Your no celebrity. you dont ahve a license, a car, a five billion dollar job. You only got that tattoo coz you thought it’d make you fit. You cant even buy your way in, and when you do – it never comes back.

“No worries..” you say, and the elevator door closes.

..and you think to yourself “If its the last thing I ever do, i’ll get you…” but you know that you wont. you know tis hopeless. You’re full of more shit that New Orleans after Katrina – she wasnt even in your arms. Wasnt even there, wasnt even that girl from the song or fromt he dream or from the fantasy you elaboratly constructed int he dead hours of the working afternoon.

You head home. You get the mail out of the mail box, and its some Boys Town bullshit – some competition,a chain letter, a letter from the gas company wanting to extort more moeny. You open the fornt door, and you’re wondering where the cat went – and you realise its been a few days since it got hit by that car, and you buried it under the lime tree. You walk into the house, and you know you havnt cleaned up for a while. The dishes are stacked, dirty, all around. Theres a linger of cigarette in the air. Theres no one to phone, because none of them ever return your messages.

You take a beer from the fridge. You wonder what you should cook for dinner. You turn the tv on.

You smile toy ourself, jsut a little and finish the can – crushing it down, throwing it tot he side.

You tie the rope to the outside patio, tightly wound around the beam.

You kick the chair out.

You…