Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you run for cover,
When you hear the dumpster fall?
In the middle of the night,
Do you look outside?
Do you love me?
Do you look in the bowl,
before you flush it?
Do you love me?
Do you look under the bed?
Do you love me,
When you masturbate?
Do you love me,
When you spraypaint my name on some box car?
Do you love me,
When you drink a cup of coffee?
Do you love me,
When you get a flat tire?
Do you love me,
Looking at the list of ingredients?
Do you love me,
When I wash your clothes?
Do you love me,
When I don't come home?
Do you love me,
When I do?
Do you love me,
When I fart?
Do you love me?
Do you love my smell?
Do you love me?

I didn't think so.

Merry Christmasssssssssss..........

I'm so full of the xmas bodily fluids that I have to erupt. I shall erupt, albeit symbolically, in your mailbox. Or, it could be a "malebox," as only a life-sized envelope could encompass the image of me and Oscar Wilde on horseback, yelling out, "Ho Ho Ho, you little bastards."

This mountain's back ain't broke. The sheep have some questions, though.

You show me Oscar Wilde on a horse, and I'll show you a Santa like my grandfather. Only smaller. And gayer.

I still remember those times when my grandfather would stumble in, dressed like Santa, and shout, "Ho Ho Ho, you little bastards!" That's how I knew it was grandfather, and not the real Santa. Well, his shouts and the whiskey on his breath. Still, I knew it was Grandpa.

And he'd hurl the sack across the room, and we'd duck, as usual, and hopefully, the power of Jesus' "inert objects concealed in a canvas sack" would evade our heads, for that year. Brain injuries were reserved for the New Year celebrations -- at least in my family.

And then Grandpa would open his own present (I think he may have pretended that someone else in the family bought it for him), a fifth of whiskey, and invite me onto the porch. How could I refuse, after the gift of a carton of cigarettes. I mean the good ones. Kools. Menthols. Very festive. Very fitting around the "green and red" typical décor you can't help but run into hereabouts, this time of year.

And he'd ask me, "How 'bout a bite of the ole 'Christmas' turkey?"

I'd say, "Sure, Granddad," my eyes aglow with innocence, yet again. I guess that under some circumstances, one can regain his or her innocence. Like that time I went over a year without sex. Or, at least sex without another person. I think it should be a law that if you go a year without sex, you can reclaim your virginity in a court of law.

It's not that I want to reclaim my virginity, it's that I'd wanna lose it in a court of law on top of a lawyer. A cute little red-haired lawyer with her shapely legs wrapped around my ass.

Back to xmas.

And Granddad would pour us a glass of turkey. Wild Turkey. And then we'd light up, and the smoke would make the lights around the porch all glow and stuff, and then he'd lean over and whisper, "There's more to life than sex. There's the cigarette right after."

And we'd laugh so hard that at least one of us would fall out of our chair. Usually, it was Grandpa. But one year, I hit the ground first. That was the year that I became a man in Grandpa's eyes.

And I asked him, "What's Santa gonna bring me for Christmas this year?"

He replied, "Nothing! Santa heard how bad you were this year. You were so bad that he decided to kill himself. There will be no Christmas this year, because of you, you little bastard."

And then he handed me another drink. And lit my cigarette.

I'll always love my grandfather.

Later,

AJ

What kind of food am I?

You Are Italian Food

Comforting yet overwhelming. People love you, but sometimes you're just too much.

What Kind of Food Are You?

Have you ever?

Have you ever met that one person who fulfilled all of the fairy tales?

After the lies, after moving beyond the physical, you realize that you love this one person, with heart and soul, and all effort just bounces back. This person finishes your sentences, with better grammar than you started with?

My friends ask me, the say, "Hey, J, have you ever loved?"

Well, yeah, many times. I have loved many women, off and on. Here and there. Now and then.

And my friends ask me, they say, "Have you ever 'really' loved a woman?"

That's just mean. 'Cause I did. Once. Loved a woman.

She was amazing, to me. She was terribly flawed, like me.

She was an alcoholic.

She was beautiful.

She had red hair, and a brain. She was a lawyer. Not that it matters all that much. Just a fact.

She didn't even want to have a man in her life, but we met at a party, and she was adjusting her makeup in the bathroom, and I just wandered in and started pissing. She did not blink an eye. She just kept on putting on her eyebrows. She glanced at me and remarked, "You seem to be a nice guy, putting down the seat and all."

She was funny. She understood my sense of humor. Right off the bat, we talked openly about everything. I watched her in the mirror as she finished up her makeup, and at that exact moment, we were linked. I spent the next six weeks with her. She drew me in, and I loved it.

But alcohol will only take you so far. It only took her so far in masking the pain of sexual abuse as a child. Something she never spoke of openly, unless she was drunk.

We watched old movies on cable, and shredded the scripts, the acting. She was actually a writer, something I longed to become. She hated being a lawyer. She didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, but she knew that the very last thing she ever wanted was to be a lawyer for the rest of her life. With me, she didn't have to do anything, but be herself. And she did that.

And I loved her.

I mean I really loved her. I thought that I was undeserving of loving a woman so much, but then she would just look at me and say, "You love me, don't you? You poor, poor man." And she meant it. We could talk about anything and everything, and it was as if we were one unit. Two sides of a nice coin.

Then, I pulled away, mostly because of her addiction. She didn't even fault me for drawing away. She understood my own feelings better than I, at the time.

I later went through my own little crisis, and met her at a bar. This was after five years, and when we touched, it was like time had stood still. I professed my love for her, and she pretty much said the same thing. I made plans to get a divorce and marry her. Seriously.

Then, before I could take action, she died. Her liver bit the dust.

I've often wondered that "if" I'd done this or that, she might still be alive. I'm selfish, in that way.

So my friends ask me, they say, "Hey J, what are you gonna do now?"

I guess I'll just move around and look for that woman that I'm apparently looking for. I may never find her, but I'll still look.

There have been some women that have come close -- very close -- but I have yet to meet one that can match Corrinne (Ms. C., or "Corky" as her friends called her). I only ever called her "hon." I called her that on the night we first encountered each other. She countered with a sarcastic, "Hon." It was a running joke throughout our relationship.

She could argue quite well, which I miss. Have yet to meet a woman who relishes an argument. A lot of women frequently confuse arguing with fighting. Two different things. She would preface her statements with, "Well, hon,..."

Hence, I live my life differently now. Still looking. It's unfair, but I have to compare every woman that I meet with Ms. C, and they usually fall way short.

I suppose it's hard to compete with a dead woman.

I miss her so much that the rest of my life presents itself almost as an afterthought. She told me to write. And so I do that.

I miss that woman. I miss her every fucking day.

It's hard to understand, but it's really difficult to love a dead woman. Actually, it ain't that hard. The hard part is getting over the fact that I will never, ever, hold her again. That's the hard part.

She's dead. A big part of me died as well.

Don't feel sorry for me, 'cause I don't feel sorry for myself. All I'm saying is, if you meet that one person that you think might work for you, then run with it.

You asked?

You ask, "What happens in government when the ideal has priority over the people?"

We're living it. I wouldn't give the current administration the benefit of calling their motivations "ideals," but you can be sure that they view things in such a light.

Remember, villains are the heroes of their own stories.

Once you embark upon the path of "the ends justify the means," then you run into things like torture, murder, etc. Elimination of conscience makes all things not only possible, but necessary, and therefore desirable.

This is an unspoken truth in most religions. A person can achieve paradise by doing "God's" work. As a devout atheist, I find it abhorring, but human beings somehow become bestowed with "God's" will, and they act upon their supposed knowledge.

The end, or perceived end, justifies the means.

I have often wondered if the guys who flew those planes into the twin towers had a brief moment of conscience, where they wanted to veer away at the last minute. I think not. I think that their brains, through conditioning, probably told them that they were approaching “heaven.” The closer they got to the towers, the more ecstatic they probably became.

That was their perception. That was their reality.

We are indeed living in unusual times. In these times, our government chooses “ideals/faith-based bullshit” over science. It’s notable that the leader of our country would tout “intelligent design” as a legitimate course of study.

Evolution is fact, and not a matter of “belief.” However, if a person’s world view precludes fact, then all things are possible. For such a reality, certain things become not only possible, but desirable, and therefore, necessary.

I am troubled that we, as a species, have not evolved as much as I had assumed. I guess I have my own problems with my reality…