A New Way to Die

Not much fog this morning.  I was up early.  Sat up, turned up the volume on Social Distortion until it was at a painful level.  (Sorry, resident animals.) Shaved and showered.  A cup of great coffee.  A scan of e-mails.  The news playing in the background.  The usual about stabbings, arson, a state economy that resembles Cambodia's of old.  Commercial breaks telling me why I should vote for that ghoul Meg Whitman. 

I sip my beverage, waiting for the caffeine to start its magic.  I seriously contemplate joining that indoor soccer league.  Great exercise.  Gives me something to do, though time is not something I have in abundance right now.  Think about the fact that I got to make salsa tonight, which means my hands will tingle for a few days as the habanero oils seep into my skin. 

Had two great discussions with two very great and different females yesterday.  They both stated they feared they would be alone forever.  I couldn't see that happening, as they both have great things to offer a companion, but I could sense their dread.  Alone is a tomb that gets smaller every year.  That is a terrifying thought.  I also think it is unfounded in their case, and I let them know that.

My second cup of coffee is almost drained now.  I have this overwhelming urge to stay home and watch Haute Tension.  I just want to revel in some nihilism for a while.  Something about those screams ...

I won't do that, though.  Not today.  Have a meeting.  Would only miss it if I were sick.  My stomach doesn't feel great, but it rarely does.

Fact on the news: Ryan Seacrest has three million followers on Twitter.  What that vapid fuck has to say that is worth three million people paying attention to is beyond me, but you can't argue the numbers.  I did see a picture of him in a Bumpy Pitch t-shirt, so he can't be all that bad, but I highly doubt he and I share much in common.  I wouldn't mind meeting him, though.  Inviting him over for a meal.  Maybe I would've won some contest.  Here's how I picture it going.

"Ryan, if I may call you that, this is pretty cool."

"I always enjoy meeting my fans."

I place our plates at the table.  "Fan.  That is such a strong word.  I'm not so much a fan as I am curious."

He examines the pasta, wondering if he should eat it and risk poison, or not eat it and risk insult.  He goes with poison.

"It's good," he says around a mouthful.

"You got a little sauce on your lip.  Let me get that."  I reach over with a napkin and dab it away.  He appears nervous.  Bet he wishes his bodyguards were inside the house instead of outside the door texting teenage Idol losers.

"Um," he stammers, "I really have a lot to do today ... the show ... stuff."

"The night is young," I tell him. 

"Yeah, I've been up for a while."

"Me, too.  May I ask you something?"

"Sure.  I'll tell you, though, I don't know Mel Gibson."  He laughs.  This is funny to him.

"I don't care about him.  Do you ever get the feeling you walked into something you can't really get out of?  Where all your instincts are screaming for you to run, but you don't do it because you think you can't possibly be in that situation?"

He has stopped eating.  "Yeah.  Maybe."

I laugh.  "I'm fucking with you man.  Enjoy the pasta and then get the fuck out of here.  You're busy, and I got some films to review."  And then I leave him to his food.

Pretty sure he'd never forget that one.

And it looks like I have to work on the manuscript tonight.

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