clappy carbos had called us into a coma. my comatose classless colleagues compounded that con founding condition, by causing a
curious cacophony, a chorus of curt, wheezed-out creaks and clinks, the chorale of our conked- out crew. cleaving to a conscious
state i contemplated karmic excus es and other credible causes for us crapped-out kiddos. “of course!” i cried, conking my cranium, which
led to a bit of inconsequential com motion among my crumpled and clumped-up companions. con torted into a quivering but quiet
cackle, i came to the correct con clusion: clearly our schoolkid days were kaput. we’d each crept begrudgingly beyond coming of age
cadets and into crinkled old codgers. disconsolate, i crawled back under the covers to coalesce with my cadre of coots on the colder edge of the cosmos.
simple smiles of idiotic gathering dust in the foyer. yay. my schtick today is my back hurts and the man’s thumb smushes me into the ground, into a pancake on the deteriorating floor
of my tiny, overly hot, coffin-sized apartment. huge goal: escape. this goddamned hotbox. hook up with this lovely human being. big plans. big plans. which is there’s only one plan, one plan, nothing but one goal in the whole entire world. or else i die. or else i hermit out the rest of my life, which likely ends near now, a few steps away, no mojo, the motivation for this one goal dissipating, drained, like the gunk that disappears down the sink, and not just any old sink, but the toilet that is the only working toilet on your (my) wing of this i-can’t-in-good-conscience- complain-about apartment building, which is, nope, not going to complain about it. because goals. because, i mean, and i’m sorry to keep having to remind myself, goal. singular. one. singular frustration. and every little step i take toward this goal. and let me tell you, or don’t you know about baby steps. focus on my frustration, folks. you imaginary friends and acquaint ances. see me to the door. the door to my next cubicle, oh my god, if you even could, if anyone could, let me just say, i’m fine, every body, i’ll be okay. but only if i live. or maybe i’ll be more okay if i die tragically never having reached what i would have imagined most of my life to be such a simple goal. good grief. allow me to con you with my confidence. let me wine you without whinnying about winning. i’ll pose for my post about positivity, which i posit’ll be in the shape of the statue, or maybe a tiny little copper or clay sculpture of my posterity. if i live another day. if only it were that one thing i could work toward, day in and day out. fuck bureaucracy and all of the rest of life that has to be lived. dangerously. menacingly. i gotcha goal. i’ll getcha. and when i do, there they’ll be, like gigantic bowling pins, all of the urgent things that must be tackled, that will get struck, unless between now and then i’m stricken with some thing deadly, like death or debilitating disease. put a lid on it, dimwit. this is no del usion, this is real, dude, as for everything but that one thing, i’m on strike. i’ve got one life, and only one thing that must be done. after that, all the pins will fall in my joyful new universe, down my alley, the way things were supposed to be, the world i almost knew, it’ll be, it’ll be, it’ll be.
I don’t know. How do I feel today, as I ready for my “post cancer surgery MRI,” which will take place in another couple of hours? I’ve
really started to feel the “it’s been six months since I had surgery to re move cancer” and begin to mull that over in my head for, I suppose the first
time. I had a little blip of “I have it” back when I had it. There was that one day of frightening. But everything else was such smooth sailing, and afterwards I received
that “cancer free” “clean bill of health.” So I doubt I’ll think much more about it
Wow, I should get out and enjoy the world. What has been my problem? A reversal from extrovert to in trovert? At home testing does not support that poss ibility. But I have been a veritable hermit now for approaching five years. Nearly ten if I count my last years at home and my two years with out a home, even though I was gen erally more sur rounded by people during those years than I have been during the past five since I have had my new small apartment. I keep to myself, except during interviews and the small stints I have had of employment. I speak with therapists, psychologists,
recruiters, and various
doctors and, on occasion,
speak to the front desk
personnel here at my
SRO, or to the case manager assigned to
me here. So my ob
vious need to often surround myself with warm bodies, as well as my rejuvenating penchant for long discussions with friends – a luxury I do not have anymore, at least not in proximity, for reasons that have both unnerved me and perplexed me now for years, a problem which has me un able to move either backwards, toward those with whom I was so well acquainted, or forwards, to acquaint myself with new ones – has been non-existent for so long now that I would not even know where to or how to begin again. I know that I must learn how, somehow, because this is not my best way of being. In
fact, that is often what I mean when I have said for several years now that this is not living, or that I cannot wait to get back to living. It is the need to have the close ness of people to me, people for whom I care. I have main tained a very few (three) close friends, one being my mother, so that’s family. Maybe there are four. In either case, neither are in the city in which I live, so there is absolutely no face-to-face conversations with people who know me well. Whom I know well, also. None of that. This has been the obstacle, the reason that I have continued to say that I am not living. But the fact of the matter is I am alive. And while it’s been the most difficult uphill haul with which I’ve ever had to climb, I am still here. So what’s my problem? There’s a shitload left to do. Let’s get to moving! I’m not sure who I’m yelling at since I’m the only one here. But I do know that it’s time for me to crack that whip. Get on with it. Or give up. Those are the only choices.
what was her name? the professor? i somehow have her confused with my high school spanish teacher, but then it comes to me, yes, no? falls-corbett? i’m not certain, but that is the name that comes to me. first name peg, i think. funny that she has bill’s last name. bill, my editor of many years, i had the honor and good fortune of taking his class at mit. back when i worked there. and then i feel the connection. he wrote an autobio graphy called ‘futhering my edu cation,’ did he not? yes. so this class i took in undergraduate school, at hendrix college in conway, arkansas, ‘ethical issues’ it was called, in which we as a class covered around five topics throughout the tri mester (hendrix was an eclec tic school, with three semesters, or ‘trimesters’ per class year, at least back in those days; i believe i read somewhere recently that this is no longer the case), five topics laden with controversy, topics that you fell on one side of the fence or the other, inevitably? hopefully? we were just college students. i mean, perhaps my classmates had much better developed values than i did, but, as i like to say, i was a late bloomer, and i doubt i was firmly on either side of the fence on any of the issues. i can only recall two of them, which were abortion and the death penalty. i do know we each had to write an essay which clearly stated our opinion, based on any research we did on the subject, a coherent argument either for or against. it turns out that i did have a pretty solid opinion about abortion rights, just a basic but solid opinion, but on the death pen alty, i did not. but using logic, a method of deduction that i’d inevitably dub ‘my religion,’ i came to the conclusion that no one person or people should have the power to determine whether any person, incarcerated or not, should be
put to death. that i remember. i’m not sure why i am writing about this class this morning, and of course i’ve no idea why it came to me shortly after i awoke, the memory of sitting in that class during what i think was my sophomore year of undergraduate school in arkansas. but thinking about that class now, i believe it to be a turning point for me. a sign ificant transformation occurred within me that made room for what would be come my malleable but ever-solidifying values. those most important issues we face as humans, or that i face, anyway. i was a good student before that class, as in my grades from mid-elementary school through graduation and on into my first year of college hovered around near perfect. but as for my education, i’d say that it began with that class. it’s been a long and winding road ever since, but one thing has re mained true: with an over-arching curiosity, i have been furthering my education ever since then, ever since tackling those primary and relevant issues in which there are no hard and fast correct answers in that class entitled ‘ethical issues,’ with professor falls-corbett. this feels like a relevant subject to have woken up thinking about in my refreshing ly cool apartment this morning. i wonder what the rest of the day will bring.
My humor is no hyena. It’s an architectural rendering taped to the entrance of the new build ing that came of it. Or it’s at least a 1,000 piece puzzle done with family and/or friends over a holiday. It might be bawdy, full of farts and snot and other various human and animal detritus. In human form this might be the consequence of eating well and/or catch ing a cold or a virus, or just from too much belly laughing. These are things that happen that at times are found funny and other times not, depending on your momentary
perspective. Finding the not-so-
funny hilarious is a fetching angle, a rather delicious mode of humor
that you might find me attempt in order to seek the life- affirming sound of audible laughter.
Laughter that is
also a gut-punch. But, also, humor can be found in our most heinous earthly tragedies: death, disease, divorce, heartbreak, failure and worse, however bad it gets, if I might coax the humor that surely exists in such subjects, in such tragic circumstances, that is a feat I’d gladly be known to have done. Delight can be eked out of anything, but of course there are many situations which are inherently comical in and of themselves. I don’t mind using those as, say, backdrops during a rather serious section of a written piece that I’m building. Which reminds me that those moments in life which we find so incredibly serious–sob
ering, even–by which I
don’t mean tragic, but just those things which traditionally are not to be taken lightly – well – I do love to find ways to milk a bit of laughter from such moments as these, so that the severity of a tough situation might be indelibly tied to the light- hearted and humorous for as long as the memories of those who witnessed or took part in such a juxtaposition had any cognition at all. Self-deprecation is perhaps one of my most used types of humor. Some call this humility, but
it can grab attention, moving a spotlight
ever closer. I use it regularly enough, even
during my worst moments during which doing so will have me pause for at least a bit of an internal chuckle at the fine mess in which I’ve
found myself. Moments in which someone (even
if that someone is me) embarrasses themselves
in front of a rather large group of people can be
hilarious, but should never be done in a casual
manner or to further embarrass. Would that we
could all glean humor from our various embarrass
ments. Slapstick, physical, Chaplinesque humor is
a big treat for me, and to be part of the physicality
of such humor is one of the greatest treats imaginable.
To go further with that notion just a bit, being a one-
time actor for quite the duration, doing or saying
or being something on stage that elicits audible
laughter has given me something that nothing
else has. Diarrhea. Just joking. It is both
immediate, like the quick pump of
endorphins through veins, and lasting,
because it enhances the little bit of
memory that I have, highlighting it
in such a way that it remains with me
at all times, and can be conjured, and is,
particularly during those moments when
it’s quite difficult to find any humor.
Be that as it may, it is during
these times more than any other that I seek out any bit, from any angle, best as can be seen from me, while I am in the midst of it, these in dour times, which are the widest avenues
over which I can be hit with a laugh or two more and more regularity. These past few years, when I have found myself virtually down on my hands and knees looking for that speck of humor, or that hidden gem of a guffaw, a laugh that is so thorough that it is like a purge, as if, say, a massage or a laxative or a purgative might do – getting rid of whatever might be toxic within me, allowing me to reconsider the moment with a bit more focus, which inevitably allows me to escape it just that much faster. All because of that thing most of us never deign to take too seriously: things that are funny, anything that can
I can’t but seem to approach things with a straightforward vo cabulary. Things that are actually happening or have happened. My bleak outlook, which is exaggerated or exacer bated perhaps by the writing down or the talking out of my bleak outlook. Now I remember what I’ve done in the past to counter this approach. Set parameters. Very specifically only think about, talk about, write about happy things or out comes which would elevate, increase satisfaction, de crease obstacles, goals that are needed in order to move that one very important step forward; without which it’d be im possible to do the most important thing I have to do on any to do list. Then I begin to restrict myself from doing any thing at all ex cept aim for my particular goal.
That one and
only thing which
will get me to
the only thing I want, have wanted for such a seemingly in terminable time now. So out the window go all of the happy thoughts, in come the bleak horizons no matter which direction I survey (most often in this tiny place which, once I might, could possibly, probably cannot reach that one goal that unlocks the doors to the only possible future I want but can’t have, won’t have, never will). This is the heart of my dilemma. The harder I work toward that one goal, the further I get from it. No matter what advice I take, no matter how I think I’m improving the process
so that I can achieve it, the more I do for this one seemingly simple thing, the one thing I need in order to get anywhere that I want to be, that I must be, alive, and soon, in order to simply begin to work at the things that are the only goals, leading to that primary goal – the more I do in order to open that one door which must be open in order for me to get anywhere near any of these places, or the one primary place, at which I must arrive in order to live – is it that serious? is it really life or death? – absolutely – the more I try to accomplish this one thing, attempting to inevitably hold in my pos session the key to the only possible future I can envision, that thing without which I will but stagnate and die, the more I try, the further I get from it. The trick has thus far been to not give up hope, to keep trying, at this seemingly simple goal. But in the dead-end reality that I seem to have found myself, how and why not give in to the impossibility of it all? I want to feel so much. I want to say, I really do, that I will not give up, that I will get there, but I am a logical person and I have never strayed too far from the possible, over-achiever that I have always been. But where once I always succeeded? Now I just wonder. I ask, I scour the earth for a clue: how do I do it now? I wonder what resignation might be like. But that is something I cannot find an inkling of within me. Just yet. Nor ever. And so I persist.
I find out that harmonic convergence seems first and foremost to point to a big first meditation on peace in August of 1997, that there is a musical equivalent, but the stress seems to be on this massive world peace event involving meditation with Mayan and astrological influence. I like the Mayan connection and find some examples of this event or others like it in Peru. I’m unsurprisingly thinking of a way to classify something that transpires between two people over a long distance,
one in San Francisco and
one in Peru; human beings who have known each other quite intimately, yet wholly virtually, for nearly four years. These people are very special to each other, yet have not managed to meet in person thanks to Covid at first, and now a binding lack of funds. It needs to happen soon. It will. This initial meeting in person. But one thing that the virtual nature of their long-term relationship, one in which they are constantly comm unicating, or daily so, often speaking to each other via videoconference once or twice or three times a day, almost never does a day go by that they do not see each other, one thing from the time together they have spent is clear –
an hour or two at a time,
quite often. There’s love,
there’s a great deal of
intimacy, and there is a
heightened sense of many
things occurring via their
engagement with each
other that would likely
not normally occur, say, if
they lived in the same city, would be able to be with each other in material and physical ways that both, or at least one of the two, think of as normal, they would not have the easy capacity to notice. These are the things that build a more resounding love, an anticipatory love, a stronger desire, a perhaps more elongated magnetism of libidos, ready to be con joined in as many elaborate and normal and experimental fashions as can be imagined. These are not all realistic, but are potentially each and all quite possible. The mind is open to such variety, such physical and quiet moments together, the likes of which, at least in one of their lives, which has been blessed with such a replete variety of love, he
has lived with many loves,
for various periods of time, but has never had one for quite this extended amount of time without one physical face-to-face meeting, no one-on-one encounters besides through individual computer screens, barrages of text messages, videos that range from those that would be considered cardinal, lascivious, to the completely innocuous. The assessment has always been that this is an obstacle-ridden relationship, one that neither had ever considered in the past, one had even poked fun at such, when friends or acquaintances were in them, thinking them more one-sided, more inter mittent, perhaps more of a side gig or an extramarital or extra-committal thing. Now karma has found this fellow, who is now in what might be the most serious relationship of his life, given the fact that they have met each obstacle with very little anguish, always with this most magnetic desire to finally and resoundingly meet. And to
continue. I imagine one musical
chord that is at such odds with
another, one representing one
of these men, say the one that
lives in the upper hemisphere of
the planet, overlapped with a totally and seemingly incom patible second chord, repres entative of the gentleman living in the southern hemi sphere – one on top of the other, with perhaps a bit of movement in which one of them is more front and center flowing into sections in which the other chord’s melodic more pronounced, and the resulting music is or elicits giddiness, an earnest love and an intense desire such that would and will bring the two men together, or such that from listening to the two one could obviously believe, even
from an outside looking in,
knowing nothing at all about
each individual, that they will surely be drawn together, that there is literally no choice but for this to happen, that only the loss of life could possibly come between this inevitability. I am on their side, I choose for both of them life, and a wealth of time in order to experience all that can be experienced within and by such a love, such a connection, from now until they do, hope fully and soon, find them selves in the very same room, and especially henceforth from that moment. The many adventures and the exceedingly beautiful life that each will lead, both individually and together after they do meet, my wish for them is that this far exceeds any idea, any expectation in which either has ever had regarding the value and the joy and the adventure that lies before them. That this journey will bring a contentment and a happiness,
an overarching joy, and an unrivaled engagement and connection, and that they will never wind their lives down from this ongoing experience, and if ever parted, will know that their experience was the best that any two people might have the pleasure of living. That day will come soon enough, and when it does
always with the know ledge that he is the best that there is at accomplishing nothing, and yet nobody can ever know. This is the one thing that gets him sidetracked a bit, and this some
I might be depressed. I’d rather not go into further details. For one thing, I haven’t figured it out myself, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with a general impotence that I have been feeling about just about everything. Do you have any ideas for potential solu tions? I do. But that’s just it. All of my ideas involve accomplishing goals that I seem unable to achieve. Of late. Of more than just late. Of perhaps a decade, maybe more? Why am I telling you this, you might ask. And I do wonder. Hon estly, I’m just ‘thinking aloud,’ attempting to get it out in order to get over it, perhaps. One thing is fairly certain, though at pre sent it’s hard to hold out hope for such, and that is I’ll be over it in no time, at least given history. The depression, that is. Not the general impotence. Of that there seems no hope whatso ever. Oof!
Well. That one had me squir ming. Some one should light a candle. Where are we? Where we are is in the belly of a magnificent beast. “Oh, it’s all in your head,” said Fred, unaware that he, himself, had been stuck there, alone, for nearly a decade now. “Where is everybody”? His words seem drunk enly sluggish and slurred. By now, he’s quite dis turbed. Thus go his days, his nights, his unfortunate plight. The
beast that’s
got him wanders the city all but unnoticed, hasn’t locked eyes with any but the unreal, as if Fred would know the difference between himself and the surreality into which he’s been trapped, but snugly now—this night marish dark and dusty world that tilts eternally at some sort of dusk. He tries to halt these fiendish thoughts, but for a moment, thinks of a kid entangled, writhing and working up a sweat in an effort to escape what ever has imp riso ned him. The boy, him self? But if he is or was, this man will never know; this unintended performance will see yet another tomorrow. But if he doesn’t know? Who’s to speculate upon such woe? Or even if woe it is. Who would know? Let them
Once they were introduced they took at each other swimmingly. Which was no surprise. Belzer, it turned out, played a most convincing Cupid. They moved in together within a month, or so, this being recollected by a few of his friends. And so, for the rest of that year, and for most of the next one, anytime Belzer would hang out with one or more of his pals over coffee or drinks or what- ever (be it singly or as a pair), all they’d hear for the duration was Blah this and Meh that, depending on which of the two were speaking. They glowed with admiration. But was it love? Before the year was over, Meh and Blah went their separate ways. And if you asked either one of the formerly hyper-happy couple what had happened? Each would feign a yawn and assert the other was the veritable epitome of boredom. End of story. Is anyone still awake? (Ennui.)
He didn’t have any idea how to address the sit uation. I mean, he had plenty of fantastical scen arios playing around in that head of his, to be certain, but when it came to moving any of these notions toward action, something to force the problem in some dire ction, even if the idea would potentially back fire (isn’t there always a chance this might happen – this thought was primary in render ing him ineffectual), he wanted to believe that this was a choice he’d made, to simply stag nate, to sit on the issue, so to speak, and he’d occasionally believe this firmly enough that he’d do just that, stub bornly sit, be itat his
desk or on a parkbench
or at some bland cafe
for hours at a time, think ing himself headstrong. But somewhere deep within that supposedly strong head of his, he knew. He knew that this act of defiance, that his inaction, would not only exacerbate his little problem into one that would be, in the end, un manageable. It would be come out of control in such a way that no matter what action might even potentially be drawn from the deep well within him self (it was a fantasy of his that this well was deep, of course), that this tiniest of problems would inevitably lead to his demise.
My depression wore argyle, which I thought was not very representative of the times, even though I was a child of the 80’s, or as I say, a child of the 90’s, by the time of which I could legally drink or go to war, had received an undergraduate degree and soon after
had attended a Motley Crue/ Whitesnake concert and two Depeche Mode concerts, not to mention others (like, for example, a
Huey Lewis & The News
concert in Memphis, but my
depression says that we dont have
time for that). I found that at these
concerts my depression would dissipate
if not disappear for the entirety of each
and every show. However, before and after
them, depression would be present. I never
saw Nine Inch Nails in concert, and Trent Reznor,
Goth’sanointed king. He was a hero for me
back then. He recorded an album at 10050
Cielo Drive in the west-central part of the Beverly Crest Neighborhood of Los Angeles, where some members of the Charles Manson family had committed the Tate murders in 1969, when I was two years old. Reznor had purchased the property in 1992 and immediately built within it a recording studio, which he dubbed “Le Pig.” For years, Nine Inch Nails would blare incessantly from what ever headphones I would use at the time into my ears at whatever the maximum possible decibel level. His anthems, filled with complex riffs, punk remnants, heavy driving beats, Reznor’s screamy voice and ultra-depressing lyrics would uplift me any time I was able to play them. That is how
things were. Anyway, a few years later, an emergency room doctor would write me a prescription for Prozac and proclaim I suffered from depression (I had taken a
three or four question “test” and it had been
determined) and, moreover, that I’d probably
need to take these pills for the rest of
my life. This was in Toledo, Ohio,
where anyone can get quite depressed without the least bit of encouragement. Was there
any connection between my depression
and listening to Nine Inch Nails incessantly?
Very unlikely. I had been crying for some time,
previous to that prescription being written in a very long hallway within a massive apartment
where I lived alone in the Old West End, which
was a somewhat newly gentrified area downtown,
which had know worse days, for sure, but me renting
the most massive apartment within which I’ve ever lived
probably played very little into this gentrification (I left without
giving notice, owing months of back rent). Anyway, the
fact is that I was quite simply depressed thanks to a
breakup. And that was the brunt cause of my lifelong
depression. I picked up the prescription
and took the Prozac religiously through
two or three refills, and then I stopped.
And I’ve not taken Prozac since. I began to feel quite a bit better, thanks especially to this medication, and soon, I piled everything I owned into an Audi Quattro and drove to Boston, arriving there New Year’s eve, the night before 1997 began. And it was there that I would live a mostly happy existence
for three and a half
years. By the time
I left Boston for San
Francisco in the summer
of 2000, I had thrown away all of my by then outdated and really quite holy argyle socks, of which I had previously worn quite an extensive collection. These are mere facts,
Sweet Dreams to All, Near or Far, Might I but Kindly, Humbly Ask a Simple Question Regarding My Existence?
I’ve been told on quite a regular basis what a lousy communicator I am. This was of course back when I had a lot of people who spent enough time with me and on such a regular basis that I could only presume that they would know and with authority relay this characteristic to me about myself. And now that I have so many questions about this quality, there is nobody around who’d even know. And who would even want to know? Oh. My skills, I am aware, as this by which I mean, or this they mean, I’m quite a con tender in the Financial District, or else I was led to be lieve this, and knew it, and this rounded out life to make it a life with me in it, and an affordable one at that. But it appears by all measure that I couldn’t talk myself back into such an environment if my life depended on it. What more could my life possibly depend upon more than this one seemingly (for me) cinch of a task I’ve done most historically and with such regularity. But nowadays and for far too long now I talk and then I talk and then I talk and then I talk, staring into what I’ve no reason to believe are real humans that sit just on the other side of my laptop’s wind shield, a human (or two or three) who stare at me congenially and ask me the silliest questions, carrying on as if we’re the greatest of friends, or at least will be. Sometimes they have me wait a while as they beckon yet more humans, and so I wait more days and then, when they arrive they ask the very same questions, and seem elated to make my acquaintance, giving me the distinct impression that, yes, we’ll soon know each other so well, and that we’re only just beginning to get to know each other but just you wait. Just you wait. And then I don’t hear from them again, except, or at least this is usually the case, in the form of a very impersonal letter. In which they glumly say they’ve found a better friend, they have decided that we were not meant to know each other any more than in such a through-the-windshield sort of impermanent way. Okay. And so this is what I wake up to most days, and I wave hello and begin to act as eloquently as I can muster, and recollect as specifically as I can muster, in order to answer their odd and yet so genial questions, while in between these absurd con versations with a lousy windshield always between me and the other human or the two or more humans, the ones with whom I talk and laugh and act as if we I take a few moments to check my mail and, one after the other, these form letters arrive from the folks with whom I have had these conversations in the days and weeks previous, each and all with the same essential language and the same essential message: We found a new and better friend, good bye. What is there to do between those and the strange conversations? I could cry, I could give up and probably soon die. But instead I find myself rev ving myself back up for more of the same, day in, day out, month in, month out. Do you perhaps get the picture or is anyone even there? I know so well how I’d be if they had picked me. I’m so very good at all of that. But these confounded con versations through the pixelated screen? I’ve been told so often that I have anxiety, and this most often by professionals who would certainly know about such things. And I’ve been told, as well, by folks with whom I was close enough that they would surely know that I am just one lousy unscripted talker, one truly horrible communicator. And so I go to bed at night, most every night these days – these long depressing weeks that extend themselves into horrible months – wondering if that is the reason why none of these people want to bring me in, why none of them wants to be my friend.
“It’s a Good Thing You Don’t Mean That!” I say this wholeheartedly convinced. As if that’s a given. Whatever, I’m being proactive. Things go downhill from there.
Because what if you did? if he did? It never fails, when the anxiety raises its overgrown head, the doubt arrives shortly thereafter. Del is short for delulu. And for
delusional, deleterious, delete. Delinquent (but, alas, no juvenile). Speaking of teen agers, I can’t wait to get paid, no matter how little, because I have really got to get
some deodorant. Which reminds me of the last time I did. I was shopping at Target, had quite a pile in the cart, after I’d emptied the items onto the conveyor belt and wheeled it
around to collect my groceries – wouldn’t you
know it? – a seven dollar stick of deodorant remained stuck in the bottom corner of my cart. Well, as I was wheeling away, I surreptitiously
picked it up and snuck it into one of the bags full of paid for items as I was wheeling it over to the shopping cart repository (I call it the Shopping Cart Lounge). Bingo, just like that,
I smelled okay for a month or two for free! Now I’m a shoplifter. If you would have told me this would be the case when I was an adolescent I would have gotten angry and
vehemently and sincerely berated you for saying such a cockamamie thing. Anyhow, now that I’ve had a little bit of time to really mull it over, I’m pretty sure he meant it. This
is so horrific that my anxiety becomes acid reflux. Delineate, delegate, Delta Dawn, Delroy Lindo, [almost weeping now] Adore Delano (for that matter, Bianca Del Rio), Del Taco, Delmore Schwartz...
