Ah, romance

My romances are always such pitiful things; the emotional equivalent of Thalidomide babies, so sad to behold, flippering their way out of the poisoned womb of my heart. Always misguided, never directed towards any who would return the sentiment, spoiled seeds spilled upon salted earth, unable to achieve fruition. Before they finally give up and die, they rip into my chest with vicious claws, clinging to a last thin thread of hope before being trodden upon, ground beneath the heel of the oblivious object of my desire like so much dust.
I only mention this because I am madly crushing upon my current barber. Yes, my barber: I have never been effete enough to utilize the services of a hairdresser. There’s not much I can say about this man, that barber of mine, because I really don’t know anything. It wasn’t even until three times ago before I learned what his name was. I can barely even talk about his physical appearance since my eyes are closed during most of our interaction. He’s not in great shape, but he has tan skin, a goatee, kissable lips, kind of a hairy chest, and piercing blue eyes. He used to wear a wedding ring but no more. I am almost ashamed to admit the surge of hope I felt when I noticed its absence.
The first time he cut my hair, he touched my neck in such a way I melted. It was strong but not forceful; powerful but not overpowering. It was the way that men touch each other when they can. The second to last time he cut my hair, I held his hand. I am very sneaky: as he held out the mirror, I put my hand over his to adjust it so I could get a better look at what he had done. It was like touching a live electrical wire. The last time he cut my hair, he handed me the mirror. Of course, he also ruffled my hair and I nearly wet myself with pleasure. Instantly, a big stupid grin, one that would make Barney the purple dinosaur say, “Whoa, that dude is like too cheerful”, leapt to my face. I couldn’t help it. I hate not being able to help it. The worst was when I went to pay. His eyes searched mine, looking for the right way to tell me “I am not interested but I will still take your custom as long as you will give it to me.” I gave him an extra dollar for tip like I always do, and walked out, shorn and shaved but none the worse for wear.

wooo woooo

<> I love trains. Not the model ones (although they are kind of cool, too); the big honking trains that carry freight and delay traffic across this nation of ours. I don’t love them as some kind of metaphor for life, or for the idea of traveling to exotic locales, or their (supposed) air of mystery a’ la the Orient Express, I just like them. A simple pleasure, if you will. I especially love trying to count all of the cars as I watch them clitter-clack across the tracks. One time in Daytona, I counted almost two hundred cars on one train. Rather than being annoyed at the delay, (which was not utterly insignificant) I was mildly thrilled. One hundred ninety-eight cars! I remember thinking, It’ll probably be a long time before I see that many on one train again.
Right now, the hamster in your reader’s brain is running rapidly on his squeaky wheel. You are thinking He must have just seen an even bigger train, otherwise why is he mentioning it. Close, but not quite. It was actually a smallish train, only thirty-eight cars, but it was the circumstances that spurred me to write about it. You see, this most recent train stopped. Just stopped dead on the tracks. I had been watching it whiz by as I approached the other cars halted at the crossing. When the last train car (although, since I cannot with all veracity name it a caboose, I shall not call it as such) eked past the edge of the crossing, the train stopped. This, of course, kept the crossing activated and immediately and visibly spiked the irritation level of everyone (except me) waiting at the crossing. People began flipping their cars into impromptu U-turns, unwilling to be delayed even a second on their way to whatever destination had called them out. I watched with increasing curiosity as a worker leapt from one of the cars, and walked around the base of the train, communicating to what I can only assume was the conductor hanging out the window of the last car. After some minutes, the train began moving again in the opposite direction. Yes, the last car became the first, and the train went back the way it came. On second thought, maybe trains can be a metaphor for life.

Dream a little dream...

As sort of a side dish to my recent humiliation (which I am now completely over, I sincerely mean it) and medical problems, I managed to stress myself out to the point where my neck and shoulders locked up.  I will now wait until you recover from your shock and awe.  (Whistling)  Just for gravy, I managed to sleep funny on top of that, so my left shoulder has become an Icecapade of Agony, a phrase I find to be redundant.  The point I am slowly ambling toward is that, for the past few days, I have not been able to sleep on my side or on my stomach as I normally do.  While it may not sound like a major inconvenience, you know how I love to bitch.
When I sleep on my back either one of two things will happen.  The first is I will have a nightmare.  These are not just your everyday nightmares, however.  These are so bad I do not simply wake up, I bolt upright, torn from my sleep, fear shredding the gentle curtain of my slumber like a knife through rotted velvet.  Breathing hard, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, I need a full minute before I can reassure myself that I am in fact awake and not in mortal peril, and I need far longer than that before I even entertain the notion of going back to sleep.  I do not like it when this happens.  Not at all.
The other thing is kind of embarrassing.  It only happens to males, usually pubescent boys or men who are not having regular sexual congress, when they are sleeping.  You learned about it in health class.  It involves changing the sheets.  Yeah, that.  It comes with its own special dreams.  I like those dreams (obviously) but I do hate dealing with the mess.  I think it is weird that these diametrically opposed experiences are brought on by the same stimulus (me sleeping on my back) but there it is.  Just a minute part of my grander specialness.

Love you like lovers!

Hello darlings!  I must sincerely apologize for my protracted absence.  I will freely admit that at times within the last month, I thought I might not return to posting here.  Not because I don’t love it, because I do, but I just wasn’t feeling myself.  (Oh, that sounds bad… let us walk carefully around the masturbation joke lest it explode in our faces.  Dammit, that didn’t come out right either.  Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts…  Okay.  I am together again.)  Rather, I was not feeling up to my usual urbanity and I really didn’t think I had anything to say.  To wit: I had no sparkle to give you, darlings, and instead of giving you crap and endless whining, I preferred to give you nothing.
I don’t want to go into detail about my decided luster lack, because all four of you who read my site are pretty much up on what I’ve been dealing with and, despite popular opinion to the contrary, I do hate to whine.  However, I am staying hopeful that I will soon have a resolution to my vision problem and I have almost completely worked through my recent professional humiliation.  Hmm, you know, that phrase sounded more like “bad incident at work” and less “time spent with Madam X and the Minions of Pain” before I typed it out.  Dammit!