Wednesday, August 29, 2007


You Are Lemon Meringue Pie

You're the perfect combo of sassy and sweet
Those who like you have well refined tastes

Well, that explains everything now, doesn't it? I'm not sure sassy should be applied to a man, but I'm not sure how a snarky pie would taste. I like how it also sucks up to you (the audience).

Really, this bit is just filler, and what is a better filler than pie? I'm working on a few posts, but with the long weekend, its taking me a bit to hone my wit to razor sharpness.


Attention Babies!

This is an open letter to all babies, present and future:

Yes, very cute. Now stop posing for a photo op every 10 seconds and crawl over here. I want to talk to you. No, we can play Peek-A-Boo later. You adults can stay too, if you like.

*Sigh* You babies these days have sooooo easy. I just finished shopping for a gift for a friend's new baby off her registry, (which BTW was 18 pages! What, is this baby taking a voyage overseas, she needs 100 sets of jumpers?) and picked an item off this list that met my "appropriate gift size", in the $30-50 range, and looks huge wrapped. A blanket.

One blanket cost $35 bucks? For a baby? Come on! And no, I didn't bring my better half, I want to get out of Babies R Us for under $200, thank you.

Then I found this blanket.

Have you seen this thing? This blanket almost defies proper description. So soft, so fuzzy, so cuddly. The nerve endings in my fingers began to short-circuit from sensation overload. If pure joy could be rendered into tangible form, it would be this blanket!

I held it to my face for several minutes. A man. Alone in a baby store. I'm sure the nearby shoppers thought me a deranged Pedo, but I didn't really care, I was communing with the softest element in the known universe, even softer than a puppy's belly. . .

Which brings me back to you, babies. Stop chewing that! Here, chew on the froggy rattle.

Awww. . .

Where was I? Oh, right.

Look, this blanket is far too soft for you to appreciate. My baby blanket wasn't nearly this soft! My mother unearthed it out a couple of years ago, and in comparison, it feels like rough spun burlap drug thru a gravel pit. And, it's not like I was born in a cave, it was the '70s! Back then, adults knew better than to coddle us. Or cover electric sockets.

I can tell you right now, if my blanket had been this soft, I never would have matured past the larval stage. I would have just lain my chubby pink body on this blanket, weak from atrophy, until I expired from pure ecstasy. Much like a shmoo. You babies are too young to know what a shmoo is, but I am dead sure that Disney will buy the rights sooner or later, and resurrect the mighty schmoo! In digital format, starring Brad and Angelina, no doubt. But I digress. . .

In conclusion babies, this blanket is no good for you! The world, in fact, life in general is not like this blanket. It's harsh and itchy and covered in bacteria! Just like my old blanket! Best get used to it now, so the shock won't overwhelm your proto-brain when it finally shows up to break your favorite toy. Please, give your blanket to an adult, who really needs this amazing softness as an escape from the harsh reality.

I'm telling you this for your own good. No. . .please don't cry. . .*sigh* Alright, fine, keep it then, pouty face! You are such a baby. . .


Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Thank you, !

I just won my first blogging prize! I want to thank Sara at Dating Tales for the $25 gift certificate for my entry, "The Sweet Midwest Girl" into the "Worst Date Ever" contest. Apparently there were multiple winners, but let's gloss over that. My story was better :p .

I created this blog so I could enter the contest, and I enjoyed writing it so much that I have continued. I have to say that I was very surprised when people started showing up here and commenting.

Thank you to all who have stopped by, I'll try to keep you entertained. I really enjoy several of your blogs as well, it has kept me mentally stimulated over these last weeks, and that is the first time in a long time that I can say that.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Manly Men Doing Manly Things

"Laddie, do you know what a true Scotsman wears under his kilt?" -Random jolly man

"Here. This $10 is yours if you don't tell me. Again. Please." -Me

Ahh, the Scottish Festival, home of the Highland Games. My wife identifies herself as being of Scottish descent, and loves knowing all about her genealogy, her clan and their history. Being as she tolerates my random hobbies and interests, I feel compelled to accompany her each year to our local festival. The workers manning the festival are interesting characters, consisting mainly of Renaissance festival carnies eking out a living while awaiting Haunted House season to open next month. Then they are off to their retail jobs at the Mole Hole and ski lift operations until next year.

Here you can find all things Celtic, (yes, those Irish aren't satisfied on having their own freaking day, they too must set up booths to peddle their green wares.) As I peruse the endless supply of tartans and broadswords, I always have Mike Meyers as his Scottish SNL character running in my mind, declaring: "If it's not Scottish, it's Craaaaap!". This causes me to chuckle to myself as I wander, making the passerby think I might be a little touched.

Beyond the goods, bagpipers and godawful food lies the fields of battle: The Highland Games. Here is where you can find the manliest of men( and some women), participating in competitions who origins have been lost in the mists of time. Or not, as told by assorted miked MC's.

There are 3 games I always enjoy: The Sheaf toss, where they try to toss a 20lb hay bag over ever increasing heights, the Weight for Height which seems to consist of heavy drinking of single malt scotch in the hot sun, then tossing a 60lb weight over your head, and trying not to bean yourself, and then the Caber Toss, where huge men toss telephone poles down rage. This is hands down my favorite.

There are apparently 3 basic sizes of cabers: wee, not so wee, and Frickin' Huge! (More chuckling to myself, causing the woman in the tie die kilt and fringed doeskin boots to move over a bit and eye me sideways. Oh yeah, I'm the freak here, lady. . .)

One of the four bag piping sections in residence takes the field and plays the haunting traditional Scottish hymn: "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" as the contestants fill in their lengthy insurance waivers covering hernias, heatstroke and crushed skulls. Then, let the games begin!

The goal is to toss these suckers end over end down field, with their final position being as close to 12 o'clock as possible. The biggest caber in the 3rd round is 22 ft long and 145 lbs. I missed a photo of it, but at the end of this 40 yard field where these cabers are being tossed is a pair of mothers sitting cross legged on the ground with their strollers next to them, chatting away in the partial shade, not paying attention in the slightest. Yeah. . .good plan. . .

The worst injuries on this day are broken fingers and a rolled ankle. But fear not! There is another festival only a month later in our fair state for those who can't get enough.

I have to say, there is a really wide latitude for consideration of what consists of Celtic entertainment. When I first started going to these 6 years ago, there was an event: "Dogs of the British Isles" As promised, there were English hounds, Irish Wolfhounds on hand, and assorted other dogs lumped in, but there was at least a theme going. This year, the festival had a dog agility course and Flyball tournament as well, which is stretching it, to say the least. Also seen, a junior martial arts demonstration and an artillery battery firing at the top of each hour, DRESSED IN CONFEDERATE CIVIL WAR UNIFORMS! I wish I could say I was embellishing, but no...*Sigh*

I'm just sayin' that if I show up at the Dog Agility Championships with a bagpipe and start wailing away, I will not be welcome. . .


Monday, August 20, 2007

A Musing Dilemma

Musing. Definition:

muse/myuz/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[myooz] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation verb, mused, mus·ing.
–verb (used without object)
to think or meditate in silence, as on some subject.
Archaic. to gaze meditatively or wonderingly. –verb (used with object)
to meditate on.
to comment thoughtfully or ruminate upon.
[Origin: 1300–50; ME musen to mutter, gaze meditatively on, be astonished <>muzzle]

from: Unabridged (v 1.1)

Ok when I first started this blog, I put about ten seconds of thought into the title, picking words that I thought would be interesting and unique, just like me. I like the word musing as I feel it adequately describes my thoughtful yet humorous ponderings transcribed to this blog.

It took about a week of sifting through other's blogs before I found how sadly wrong I was. I am not a zen wordsmith, I am just another schmuck who used a neato word to show how verbose I am.

The word "Musing" may be the most overused non-lingo word out there in the Blogosphere.

Reading other sites with the word musing in it, I came to realize that "musing" apparently has a wide variety of definitions as well. One man's musing is another man's irritating rant, or more likely a thinly veiled (like prosciutto thin, at best) marketing pitch.

The Current Stats from my 15 bloggers with musing in the name, 781 sites ID'd as part of the Musing community.

Here are some of my favorites in my brief research:

Caustic Musings: a promising name, but without the really acidic writing I was hoping for. Plenty of delicious meals and hardcore exercise regimens, however.

Fireplace musings: an actual muser of of New Zealand that I enjoy.

Amy's Musings - A mommy blog, one of many I enjoy, for no reason I can adequately explain.

A Musing D'Bergeracs - a diary blog of sorts with a font I hate.

Merri Musings: Current news stories mixed with yummy sarcasm for flavor.

Black musing sheep. Don't know what to make of this one, but I do enjoy the name. Do black sheep muse?

Here are some ones that I have trouble understanding how "Musing" became affixed in their title:

Bittersweet Musings: Technical and Xenophobic

Business Musings: WSJ with musing, if musing is to be regarded as any opinion whatsoever.

Collegiate Musings: Not even trying to pretend it's a blog, just a passthru to a linkfarm. (or mabye linkghetto)

Divakar's Musings: A daily affirmation blog best describes it, I think.

Any other musings out there I just have to add to the list?

So, do I take musing off the title of this blog so I won't be lumped in with others that I find less than amusing? (yuk yuk) Or do I keep it as a shining beacon to the standard of what true musing should be? Thoughts from my loyal


Blow me, Visual Verification!

OK, with the state of the Internet, I know there has to be some checkpoint measure taken to make sure that a human is filling out a comment on a blog, rather than a sophisticated program, but fuck!

I was trying to ad my pithy wisdom to one of my favorite blogs, and after pouring out my soul in the comment section, thus adding to the Human Experience, I was confronted with the "Visual Verification"(addressed hereafter as VV, as I hate it so much), which was so completely impossible to read that I got it wrong three times before I finally pulled it off. (This may be my favorite run-on sentence ever, so I'm leaving it! I talk like a run-on sentence.) I don't have time for that! I gots things to do.

They make it much harder to read, I'm going to need a freaking program just to read it for me! I love the justification for VV, that it makes it impossible for a machine to read. Oh really, wise Internet security experts? Ever heard of OCR software? My crappy digital pen can translate my left-handed scribbles,(far worse, most likely than the VV can produce) into plain text with a 95% accuracy. I'm thinking that a diabolical spammer can come up with a remedy to your infallible VV measure pretty darn quick, if he felt it was worth his time.

If spammers are ever going to be stopped, it will be as a formal declaration of war against them, and destroy their means of spewing their porn, virus and get-rich-quick schemes at the root, namely their ISP access. A case can be made that they are elusive and unstoppable, but money is always traceable to and from a source if your work as a collective to uncover it.

Of course, when that day inevitably comes, and the World Police finish them once and for all, our world will become that more homogenized and uninteresting. Be careful what you wish for.
Oh, and make sure you copy my visual verifier before attempting to post. :)

P.S. Or is it just me?

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

I always thought myself more Rowlf the Dog

Fozzie the Bear?

You Are Fozzie Bear
"Wocka! Wocka!"You're the life of the party, and you love making people crack up.If only your routine didn't always bomb!You may find more groans than laughs, but always keep the jokes coming.

However, I drive just like Fozzie! Hands on top of the steering wheel, singing "Movin' right along" at the top of my voice.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Bumper Sticker Mysteries

While I was sitting in traffic this morning, I looked over and saw this Bumper sticker on the back of a Chrysler Pacifica:

You girls are such scamps! That made me laugh. At least until I pulled up next to the driver, and found that it wasn't a woman, but a man in his mid '50's! With very little hair. And a sour expression.

As we were sitting in traffic together, I began to wonder how he came to be driving this car. It didn't seem to fit him. He looked more like the old beige Volvo or new red Convertible type to me. As we were incarcerated in traffic hell, I had time to speculate.

Was he the Walter Mitty husband, nagged into driving his wife's car to the dealership for servicing? Maybe she finally remembered to tell him the oil light was on for the last two weeks. . . again. She was driving him to an early grave, and at this point, he was welcoming it.

Or perhaps he bought this car for his daughter, away at college, and he was driving her car to her out-of-state campus, because he couldn't let his little girl drive all the way by herself. The sticker on her car makes him very uncomfortable, but he'd be too embarrassed to mention it to her. He was already mortified that his neighbor Frank swore that his saw her on a "Girls Gone Wild" video his son had hidden in his closet.

Or, after sizing him up for a bit, I decided he could be a vicious carjacker. He probably waited around a stop sign near her home, and when the fem hipster came tootling up, he pulled out his gat, New Jack City style, and forced her from her car. Now he was on the way to the Chop Shop to meet his evil cronies, drinking her Chai Latte half-caf and listening to NPR's "Talk of the Nation". No, wait. . .that's not on until 2, must be "Morning edition". That's probably road grime on the car door, but it could be dried blood.

Or maybe he was an old hippy with a sense of irony, and this sticker reminded him of the good old days of free love, psychedelics and occupying various administration buildings, his long hair in his eyes whilst strumming the only cord he knew on his battered guitar.

Or it could have been that he was a cross dresser who goes by the name of Margie Manhands on the weekends. After cruising a bit and finding a suitor, he likes his um, she likes, her wig pulled. That's how Margie gets down.


Then the traffic began to move again, and he cut in front of me without a blinker or even a courtesy wave, and I was sure of it: Henpecked husband. No killer carjacker or Transvestite would have been foolish enough to draw attention to himself like that. I would have flipped him off, but er. . . just in case I was wrong, I decided not to. I don't want to go out like that, yo.


Friday, August 10, 2007

In Search of an Avatar

There seems to be a wide lattitude on what is an acceptable avatar these days, everything from faces, pets, random image photos, and I even saw one today of an up-close shot of a thong peeking out of someone's jeans (No doubt a MLM blog trying to lure me in)

I am in search of an avatar that defines me, and until I find one suitable, I made this one. A shadowy figure, but one of the good guys, perhaps. What do you think?


P.S. Hmmm he's not animated anymore here...I'll have to work on that.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Hey Google: Thanks for the free Blog

It's nice to be able to post my thoughts for free, and know that thanks to Google, they will never, ever be destroyed. When the Earth finally is no more, our Galactic representatives will be roaches and Google, no doubt by then a self-aware sentient program. Know where your towel is, guys.

Anyway, thanks.

Did I tell you that I met Sergey Brin once? No, of course not. It was a Search Engine show in San Fran, I think in '99 and Sergi was working their little booth, handed me his card, and told me that they were going to be big some day. I had an appointment with an Alta Vista rep who my employer had a large contract with, I had a cold, I hated San Fran, and so I kind of blew him off, but I did wish him luck. I wonder if I still have his card in my rolodex. Sergey, I wish I had paid better attention.



Hey Sergi and Larry, please come up with an alternative to the MLS and forever break the Realtor lobby's spine. We don't need travel agents or stockbrokers anymore, we don't need these guys sucking up 6% of every house sold. Apologies to all of my realtor friends.

Oh, and thanks for the Dance.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Divorced Men

Not one myself, I can only observe, and hope that if that sad day ever comes, I can handle myself with a little more dignity. For some of you, it can be a tell-tale checklist.

Being a thirtysomething, I have been immersed in the subculture of middle-class suburban couples, and after a decade knowing the same married couples, some of those marriages are inevitably breaking up. Let's just skip over the general divorce stuff, who did what to whom, and talk specifically about the poor bastards back on the scene.

Really, if you have been married for a good length of time, you are not cool. Not even close. You might be fat, bald, and while probably a snappier dresser after a woman got ahold of you, you are not prepared for dressing like the single hip folks. If you have kids, the factor of uncoolness is multiplied for every two kids. Now, though these guys are back on the scene, and after an appropriate length of time, (Read: 30 seconds into separation to years after the divorce is final...) they are trying to attract a new mate. All have different methods, but there are some general steps in this process I have observed.

First, they go for the total makeover, trying recover the body they once had. Fitness results are mixed, but then comes the next step: do all the cool stuff they were dying to to, but never got around to. Buy a motorcycle, go hang gliding, get some tattoos, leather fringe pants, shark cage diving, etc. This seems to help butch them up from years of being housebroken, and restores their confidence enough that they are ready to hit the dating scene again.

Here is where it branches out the most. Some of these guys start with modern technology, (the very thing that helped destroy many of their relationships in the first place) and will create their profiles to let the lucky women out there know that they are available again. One friend of mine is under the impression that this is a numbers game, and more is better, (probably correct, if not hollow and deeply cynical ) and has eight separate profiles up. As I am perceived to be an Internet expert, he asked me to look a couple of them over to improve, and I foolishly agreed. *shudder* At least he didn't have any nude photos up, that would have been too much to take.

Others reach for the stars, and drop by their local strip club to let the lasses there know that a 'Man of means' is in the house, and shopping for a hot young thing to accompany him around town. Most sadly, will spend long months and immeasurable resources before they come to the conclusion that these ladies are not looking for men like them, and will move on to one of their other options.

The only thing sadder is one of them who actually does land a dancer. Now to be fair, many of these girls are very nice, I dated two dancers in my life, (one even became an ER doctor, just like she said she would :) , but the limited collective experiences of those I know who have dated them has been pretty ugly. Not all of these girls are all there, both intellectually or emotionally, and many more are relentlessly hooked on an assortment of drugs and tanning beds.

To a single twentysomething, these isuues are not a big deal, they can overlook some or all of these for a time, but for a divorced man, these will present too many challenges to overcome. You can show this beautiful girl off to your envious pals, yes, but you can't introduce them to your parents, your children, or your remaining couple friends. Many men don't realize all the other things they have grown to need from a woman besides a hot bod.

There are a fair few that will attempt to cannibalize your herd. They couldn't make it work with their spouse, but the main women they have been exposed to for years and years are other wives of their couples friends. You can generally spot these dudes easily enough, as they are the ones who will come over from their dingy bachelor apartment to watch the big game with you, but will end up in the kitchen talking your wife for long periods of time, trying their flirt out. This can lead to some hard feelings and the occasional gunshot wound for the least subtle among them.

And now we come to the saddest bastards of the lot: those that try to pick up where they left off at the 'clubs. You've seen 'em. The older guy with grey in his hair, usually wearing something inappropriate like a Hawaiian shirt and khakis, or jeans with a button down and dress shoes. Always at the edge of the dance floor or at the bar with the gold card out, trying to buy a drink for a 22 year old. The one most likely to try to out-drink shots with newly found young friends, and end up with a DUI. I despise these lads the most, probably because I know that would be me if I was ever in that situation. I loved the nightclub scene, and live music in particular. But I digress...

The common theme for most of these divorced men is spending amazing amounts of cash trying to attract a new mate (except the cannibals, unless they suddenly have huge medical bills ;), which is the one thing they usually don't have loads of! People only sometimes get divorced because they fall out of love. Many more split because of the financial mess they have created for themselves, regardless of whose fault. Now they are out there again, probably paying hefty child support (if they aren't a-holes), possible alimony, their new living space with all new furnishings (you know their wives made them toss all their bachelor furnishings long ago) , new expensive man toys, and new a hefty bar bill whenever they go trolling. Plus all the things they have become accustomed to that they have to buy, like cable, Internet, blackberries, prescriptions, food, etc.

Then, when they finally find a new mate, and it may be months or years before she finds out her free-spending Mr. Right is financially screwed, and she finds that she is his new Sugarmamma, whether she can afford to or not.

I bring this all up as another recently divorced man, more of an acquaintance than a friend, was hanging out a friend's BBQ, discussing his new freedom, and how I should hook up with him to head downtown for some "Man time" with the boys, and all the hot spots they were going to, in his brand new hummer h2, the chicks he had on the hook, and all the wonders of ice climbing, blah blah blah.

Then he proceeded to bemoan his fate with his 2 kids, on how he only got them Wednesday afternoons and one weekend a month, and how the system and his Ex were out to get him, and how unfair it was. I surprisingly felt very little sympathy for him.

When I showed little interest in joining him, he called me and some of the other men there out for being whipped pussies, and reminded us how much we were missing. And it had an effect, like being dared on the playground as children.

I came to realize that while many women are very suspicious of other women near their man, the most dangerous thing to married men was no-longer-married men.

As I began, I don't have the perfect answer. I only hope that given the same circumstances, I would be able to cope better. I am also not holding divorcee women to a different standard, I just have less exposure to their shortcomings.


P.S. Wow. I can apparently can be long-winded. I'll be surprised if anyone takes the time to read all that.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

The Sweet Midwest Girl

This is my entry for "Worst date ever" on

I had been on the dating scene for about three years, enough to be good at it,

but not so long that the crushing loneliness had consumed me. A former co-worker had shown up at a party of a mutual friend, and was boldly sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with a rather short dress on. She had long red hair, alabaster skin, bright green eyes, and the cutest nose with a four tiny freckles on it. I tell you all that to try to convey that she was smoking hot and was well aware of it. I had my eye on her for some time before she had gone back to school, and left town..
We stuck up the usual, "How's it been going?" "What are you up to now?" type conversation. She had just finished her masters in CIS, moved back to the city, yada-yada. What I was most interested in was that she had broken up with her long-time boyfriend, another acquaintance whom I despised on general principal, a bull-necked jock who always wore a visor with sunglasses propped on them, no matter the occasion or time of day.

After drifting off to other members of the party, but continuing to make eye contact throughout the night, I finally had enough (liquid) courage in me to ask her out. She agreed, and we made plans for the next night.

As I had been on the hip scene for some time, and she was relatively unfamiliar with the city, I took her to see some of the newer hotspots around town. We finally settled in a dive club that had live music from local bands, and I had known several friends would be there, so I could show off my hot date. We danced and drank our ass off until close. After an initially slow start to our date, the dancing and the booze had assured that we were really into each other, and we had already stepped outside for a moment for a hot kiss.

As the club closed, we were still pretty wired, so we adjourned to a nearby Denny’s for some hot food in an attempt to sober up a bit before we headed home. We had another thrilling make-out session in the car, and I was eyeing the ubiquitous La Quinta that shared the parking lot with the Denny’s. (I know, very classy of me, but really, I was just planning ahead to the inevitable conclusion of this evening. . .) Seriously, what is it with La Quinta and Denny’s? Do they get a special tax break if they are within a stone’s throw of each other?

After the windows began to fog, we finally headed inside, and joined my friends at a big round booth table near the back. I ordered some fries to have something to munch on, but not enough to keep us there very long. We were quietly listening to the others ramble on about the bands we had seen, just enjoying each others company, my hand resting high on her insanely smooth and warm bare thigh.

Just then, the wait staffer sat a Hispanic family of five at the next booth, and I was thinking to myself, “Christ! Its 2:30 in the morning, what the hell are those poor kids doing up?” I turned my head to face my date, and was about to whisper that thought to her, when she looked into my eyes, and spoke first. “F**k. Why do they have to sit them next to us?” My brow furrowed, not taking in her meaning. She said in a conversational tone, “Those Sp**s. They stink! They stink worse than N****s!”

I stared into her huge green eyes, trying to see if my booze addled brain was misunderstanding her meaning. I was still trying to comprehend what she meant when I realized that the rest of our table had gone dead quiet, and they were all looking in turn at my date and then to me, wondering if they had really just heard that, and who exactly was this girl I was with?

I couldn’t believe it. A intelligent, witty, well educated, and beautiful woman had felt comfortable enough with me and my bar cronies to announce in a public setting that she was a vicious racist, clearly assuming that we would share her sentiments. I didn’t know where to go from there, my mind was racing, and a full ten seconds passed before I said, lamely, “Well…er…probably not as bad as us.” as the entire table was still hot and sweaty from the dancing not an hour before. Our food had arrived, and she chewed a French fry before replying “Oh, no need to defend them, they can’t help it, it’s all the hot food they eat, it just comes out of their pores. They can’t even shower it away,” she finished, wrinkling her petite, freckled nose.

I became aware at that moment, of where my hand was, and pulled it away, finally resting it awkwardly on the table between us. I felt disgust towards her, a little bit of pity, wondering who had molded her into this, and began to feel severe disgust with myself, as my lustful thoughts were still playing in my mind at the same time, envisioning how I could be all right with this. Ten more awkward minutes passed before I made our apologies that we should go, as I was getting sleepy. My date tried holding my hand as we left, still under the impression that we were having fun. I just didn’t know what to say to such a person, how to convey my contempt for her point of view. We walked outside before I began, slowly, to explain that I didn’t share her racist views, that I had been molded since birth to revile everything she had just said.

You, reader, can imagine that conversation rapidly went downhill as she realized my true nature and my increasingly condescending tone, and began shouting her defensive tirade, which thankfully was cut short as a cab rolled up in front of the Denny’s, looking to pick up the bar dregs. I put her in it, went in and apologized to my friends, and went the hell home, feeling lonely as ever in this world.

Six months later:

I see her again, in the very same club I had taken her to. She was in front of the stage, and appeared to be seeing the singer of the band that was headlining that night. We were aware of each other for some time before we made eye contact. She came to the bar where I was ordering shots, and gave me this twisted smirk. We stared at each other for some time, (I really did like looking at her) before I finally took a deep breath, tapped my wrist and said “Aren’t you going to be late for the Klan rally?” The smirk disappeared. She stalked back to the dance floor, and no doubt went on to live a nice racist life, raising a pack of vicious brats.