Baseball on the Rise

I had a rather incredulous experience yesternight. I was amidst a dream, a shitting dream, though the focus had little to do with the action of shitting. No, it had more to do with the clean up, THE WIPE. But what was most troublesome, or incredible, depending on your intrigue, was I never seemed to get it all. So there I am, dreaming I'm done shitting, and each wipe has more sticky, smeared shit upon it than the last. I must've wiped about five times, which may not be all that crazy to some shitters. They may suppose I'm either not special, or too special. But those images were on my mind for the rest of the REAL morning, so while I could say I had a rather shitty morning, it wasn't all that bad. It was amusing and interesting.

Honoring the Dead Script

There was a girl walking through the city, crying. Not bawling, but obviously distraught-faced with eyes trying to keep her cheeks up. Her jaw drags down, and it ruins her business attire. Now, I love all women, probably the sad ones most. Maybe I feel I can offer them more. But I didn't feel that need to grip her. Instead, I felt proud of our culture, as if this sight of seeing a girl walk crying through the city was not a sign of detachment, abandonment, but of liberation.

It was a fine near-evening, with limitless clouds and pastries wafting in the air. My only complaint was my belt, which had to be pulled and latched a bit more since the fit of my pants were "slimmer." Normally, I hated days like this, when the clouds kept my eyes low, the sounds of the square were uncheerful, and the people's faces left me intoxicated with indifference. But then there's this girl.

Sexually raging, sure. Desperate for a desperate hole, always. Yet as I stated, and I know I'm repeating myself, those feelings never weighed on my concern. If concern is what you'd call it. No, I was caught in the glance and stuck in the afterthought, maybe because I was proud of her. I know I couldn't cry, out in the open, nevertheless in front of these city buildings. Who is the victim here? Who is the one starving for attention?

When I reached the bus stop, and sat down upon the cold, stained cloth, my mind kept with her. Not necessarily her face, her look, but of her action, her status. I want to be with her, walking a few paces behind, listening to her meek furrows and waiting for some description. Now I know I'll never have it, and the day goes back to meaningless.

A Rip Off of Something You Don't Know

I fell for it. I knew I would but wasn't too bothered by it beforehand.

The two of them were in the back, behind the line of sycamores close to the thorn patch. The elder had his shoes unlaced and was waving about his elbows frantically. The young one preened his jacket while his earbuds blasted.

"When will you want to?" one of them said.

"About the time you quit, 'spose," said the other, in a much too hushed voice, as if to disregard his own countenance.

I began to mock them, in my mind. Refusing to move, even my keel, I took short breaths and kept my chin upon the damp flooring. Somehow...damn it I knew it!...somehow they each had an eye on me. But for that time being I was relaxed, and ever so discontent in the solace.

"Well, I guess," one of them stammered,"I guess we could flip at any moment."

"True. I know," said the other. "But what would be the value of that?"

And while my relaxation wandered, off into a place I no longer cared for it's survival, my pickpockets disarmed themselves, leaving me craving.

I drew back. I counted to three as quickly as I could.

Then the upstairs lights went off, and I fell. I feel deep deep deep down into the abyss, with them above squelching and pawing my remains without apathy.

Why must it always come to this, Grandma?