I re-read those Chapters. Man, what a fizzle out of angst it became.

I’m taking some time off from that story. It started to suck. And when it starts to suck, you’ve got to step away.

Read this instead. It’s got some NSFW words and ideas. But I think it’s funny. And it’s about the same stuff that came in the last couple of chapters. Just better written and funny. And it’s some years old.

Enjoy. Or not.

“I’m not your dad,” I said as nicely as I could.

“You’re right,” she said with a dull glare. “He fucked me better.”

I looked at her, lying in bed covered with my 15-year-old comforter that had been to two colleges and across the country three times. I wanted to cry. Instead …

I left.

Usually, I’m the one who gets left. For whatever reason, I decided to be the leaver this time.

It didn’t feel any better. No matter what the country music videos show or the television commercials imply.

My heart was still broken, it’s just this time it was my choice instead of hers.

I sit in this tiny bar in Eutah, Alabama, still thinking about her to this day.

The first time we met, she told me “You’ll never forget me.”

She was right.

But, I haven’t forgotten a lot of people.

It’s just today, she’s on my mind a little more than usual.

Maybe it’s because I know she’s near.

The modern world allows you to know this. To keep tabs from afar. Tabs without actually travelling to where she is. Well, she’s always in my head, so that’s not true.

Exactly.

The baseball season ended for her tonight. For me, for the first time since 1992, it will continue into October.

I was 21 then.

I’d known just three girls.

I’d fell in love once. Maybe twice, as I told another girl, who left me the next day. I wasn’t talking about her, and I don’t know if she really thought I was. She had that kind of power over me. She made me wonder what the hell she was thinking. All of the time.

I don’t think about her very often.

She wasn’t someone I wanted to grow old with.

Go to Van Halen arena shows and pelt Sammy Hagar with toilet paper with.

Eat peel-and-eat shrimp until we puked with.

Drive the long way, every day with.

Watch people live their lives the wrong way with.

Like I do now.

Without.

I have a life now. But it’s not what I expected. I write for money. Sometimes it’s actually pretty good. Each time I set out trying for it to be, but fall short most of the time. It’s the days when it works that I still smile. My crooked, golden teethed grin. I used to get told I had a pretty smile. I don’t anymore.

I still smile. It’s just reserved.

Unless I’m drunk.

Which doesn’t happen like it used to.

In the past, I’d go to work. Work. Leave work. Then drink.

At a bar. At a game. At nowhere. At home.

Alone usually.

I’d scribble down what other people say to each other.

One night a guy noticed me doing it.

What are you writing? He asked.

Nothing.

Bull hockey. He replied.

  1. I said. I’m writing about everything.

He stared at me.

Pussy. He said.

Nah. I replied. Haven’t had any in a while. So I don’t write about it. Sex. That is.

So then what do you write about. He asked.

A lot about masturbation. I replied.

He laughed.

I expected that.

I wrote it down.

Hey. He said. What are you writing? He asked.

Nothing. I said.

I woke up on the floor.

A nicer looking woman of about 45 years old was bent over me. Her tits were way too tanned. I still liked them. I stared.

You don’t know when to stop. She asked.

I figured it was a rhetorical question.

What were you writing? She asked.

Nothing. I answered.

Well. She said. He took your notebook. She said, pointing at him sitting at the bar.

A brunette was looking at my notebook.

I got up.

Walked over to the brunette.

You read? I asked.

Just your stuff. She answered.

Barkeep! I yelled. Two shots!

John, the barkeep, brought over two shots of Jameson.

I came here often.

Hey. He said, poking me in the back. Where is my drink? He asked.

She’s drinking it. I replied.

I woke up on the floor again. This time, my head hurt.

This time, there weren’t any tits in my face.

That made me sad.

My notebook was on the floor, right next to my blood.

Written on it were just a few words:

“You were rite,” it began. I smiled.

“You write about nothing.”

I looked at John. He nodded.

I struggled to get to my feet. I finally did. There was some blood on my left foot. Adidas Sambas, size 13. A half size too small for my feet.

Feet she called clown feet.

John already had a drink waiting for me.

I drank it.

Then I wrote about nothing.

I sold that story for $600.

Some magazine that doesn’t print anymore.

But what magazine prints anymore?

Mostly now, I dream.

About the day I met her.

And everything changed.