My bride came into the city and we saw a play. We took our seats and chatted-up the two pretty, young girls sitting next to us. At one point, the girl sitting next to me and I locked eyes. That thing happened.
The play started. Sitting just inches apart, I could feel the bright filaments.
At the play’s penultimate plot reveal, the audience gasped. She discreetly reached over and rested her hand on my arm. I don’t think it was premeditated. It was a genuine reaction to what was happening on stage. And that thing. I got woozy.
After the show, I gathered my stuff and *ran* out of the theater. I didn’t say goodnight. Things are going well for my bride and me. I don’t need that kind of noise in my life. And of all the noises that can haunt your waking hours, that’s a particularly loud one.
It never ends, does it? It can lie dormant for a long time but it’s never completely dead. It’s always there, waiting. Biology.
The family dog—the one that has bit, snarled and lashed out at me for the past six years—has gone to that big dog pound in the sky. Or hell. Who knows? She was sitting on the sofa, rolled off onto the floor and couldn’t stand up. We rushed her to the vet. The doctor said it was likely a brain tumor, which might account for her aggression.
That was about a month ago. We recently got two cats. I’ve gone from being attacked and bloodied for no good reason to this:
They’re not bonded yet. Oliver wants to be best pals in the worse way but Alice isn’t having any of it. There’s some hissing and snarling, but she’s coming around.
He snuck up onto the chair while she was asleep just to be near her.
Not surprisingly, this little indiscretion work her up.
Boy, was she angry. You can’t just go up to a sleeping girl and sniff her lady parts and not expect to get smashed in the face when she wakes up. His clumsy attempts to connect remind me of your humble narrator in his formative years. Same suave elegance. Same success rate.
The Chinese had a method of execution called Death by a Thousand Cuts that was banned in 1905. One cut won’t kill you. But 1,000 will, eventually. Bukowski has a great poem about how it’s not an atom bomb or a heart attack that kills a man, it’s a broken shoelace with no time left. The accumulation of small indignities until you finally crumble. Even Nietzsche spoke of slow death. The little things are starting to grind me to a pulp. Like this fool:
Or the woman on the rowing machine at the gym, rowing slowly with her left hand while texting feverishly with her right. Or an unwanted pheromone attack in a theater. I should ignore it all. I didn’t need that parking space or the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine! Why do I give all the little nothings so much power over me?
They are superior, photogenic animals.The light loves them.