Microfictions of Love Lost, Found and Waiting to Strike


1.
Ben sat at the tiny table in his apartment in silence. In his left hand, he had his cellular phone, flipped open with some ridiculous trinket dangling from it; in his other hand, a folded piece of torn paper. His heart pounded with the intensity of a hopped up coke fiend on an all night bender. It was a warm night, but his feet were freezing and he shook them nervously.
Do I call her? I want to call her. I need to call her. But what if she answers? What do I say? What do I do? I'm going to sound like a creep. She's going to think I'm some weirdo, some pathetic loser, some guy not worth her time. But I have to talk to her again! I have to see her. I want to feel that... that feeling. That moment. I forgot that feeling for so long. Ok. Ok, I'm going to do it. Let's do this.
Ben stood up and pressed a few buttons on his phone. He closed the phone and sat down.
Hrm. No. I'll just go lay down.
He tossed the phone on the table and collapsed on his bed. There he stayed, perfectly still, until suddenly, fwump! He leapt out of his bed, picked up the phone and dialed the number. Ring ring ring ring ring-
“H-hello?”


2.
There was an argument. It was eleven at night. She sat on the couch. CSI was on. She hated CSI, but she needed a distraction, something to help her forget. She looked at the clock above the television set. Mark had been gone for maybe 45 minutes, she thought. Where the hell did he go?
She felt herself getting angry again. CSI simply wasn't going to do it. She went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Seagram's out of the fridge. After opening it she went back to her spot on the couch and picked up the remote.
Crap, crap, boring, no thanks, crap...
She gave up and tossed the remote back on the coffee table. She took a big swig of her wine cooler, got off the couch and laid out on the chocolate brown carpet in front of the TV. Below the television sat their old stereo components. They had bought them together. It was the first thing they had bought together. His iPod was plugged into the amp. She reached over and turned it on. With her thumb she scrolled through his song list until she found the right one.
Nouvelle Vague's cover of “Melt With You” started up. She closed her eyes and took another sip of wine cooler. She stretched her arms out as she felt herself tear up.
The song finished and the playlist continued on random.
She heard the door open by the time the playlist hit Silversun Pickups. The song must have been “Checkered Floor.” She heard some soft footsteps on the carpet and then felt the dark shadow looming over her. She opened her eyes. Mark stood over her with a half-smile. His eyes were red and tired, his eyelashes in most clumps around them. He sniffed. He was holding a sundae from a fast food place in his hand. He put it down on the coffee table, took off his jacket, and curled up next to her on the floor.
She closed her eyes again.
Nothing was said.

3.
The girls smoked cigarettes outside the back door of [i]The Dirty Dog[/i] while the next band set up. Vicki was smoking menthols, Stacey was enjoying her turkish Camels.
“Can't believe you smoke that shit,” Vicki said between puffs.
“Fuck you,” Stacey replied.
Stacey was fiddling around with her phone. They were talking about the last band when Al rushed out of the door in a huff. Al paced around, scratching his head, something clearly on his mind.
“What's your deal?” Stacey asked.
“It's a girl,” Vicki chimed in matter-of-factly.
Stacey lit up at the sound of this. “No way. No fucking way!”
“Let's not start celebrating,” Vicki said.
Al acted like he didn't hear them.
“Come on,” Stacey said, “Tell me. Spill!”
She grabbed the pacing Al and shook him a little. Al shifted on his feet and took a deep breath.
“She's here,” he said.
“Who?” Stacey asked.
“The girl,” Vicki muttered, “I thought I spotted her when the Pastels were wrapping up.”
“WHO?” Stacey moaned. She was getting a little frustrated.
“We...” Al was acting especially hyper and nervous. Too much going on in his head, probably. “I met her last weekend.”
“Oh shit!” Stacey suddenly remembered, “Her? Well, what? Did you talk to her?”
“Um, yeah. Yeah, I did. I called her on Wednesday,” Al said, “I just don't know. I think she likes me. I can't figure it out.”
“Dude,” Vicki said as she stomped out her butt, “You guys hung out for, like, three hours that night. Of course she fucking likes you.”
“Fuck! Three hours?” Stacey rolled her eyes. “And you called her once? ONCE?”
“Hey, hey,” Al said, “So I don't want to come off as a creep or something. Sorry. How many times should I be calling her?”
“Listen,” said Vicki while lighting another menthol, “You don't meet girls everyday. Honestly, you should go all out. I mean, you're not like other people. Maybe you are a little... what? Neurotic? Yeah. So just be you. If being you means you call her too much, then fuck, do it. She clearly likes you. Unless you were pretending to be somebody else that night?”
Al laughed and his shoulders relaxed. “No, no it was all me. I was a nervous wreck the whole time.”
“Sometimes we like that,” Stacey said, taking a deep inhale on her Camel, “Don't get me wrong, we fucking love confidence, but it's nice to know we get that sort of reaction out of ya'll.”
“It's a little empowering,” Vicki said, “Maybe we're evil bitches, but we like to see you guys squirm once in a while.”
“So you going to talk to her?” Stacey asked.
“You mean here? Tonight? Right now?” Al started getting nervous again. Stacey laughed.
“Jesus!” Stacey cried out, “Who is this girl?”
“It's cute, isn't it?” Vicki said, nudging Stacey with her elbow, “No, Al, tomorrow. Of course fucking here. Now. Tonight.”
“I... I guess,” Al said, “Why the fuck not, right?”
“That's the fucking spirit,” Stacey said, punching Al in the arm.
“Our little Al is growing up,” Vicki said snidely.
“But first, one of you give me a fucking cigarette,” Al said, “I'm going to need it.”

4.
When people talk about Stephen's funeral, they will likely refer to it as “nice” or “classy.” It was no large affair. People came and paid their respects, some tears were shed, and some good stories were told.
That's not to say people were enjoying themselves. It was a funeral, after all. Funerals are sad. That's the nature of them. Dave knew as well as anybody about this. It was weird to see his best friend made up in a suit, laying in casket. The folks at the funeral home did a pretty good job making him up. Dave half expected Stephen to get up partway through the eulogy.
But man, was it boring. Sad and boring. What a horrible combination, Dave thought. The sort of situation where Stephen would be a good sidekick. He'd liven the place up. Heh, he thought, no pun intended. It reminded Dave of the fact that so much of his life up to this point had been Stephen-based. It was always about what they were going to do today. They had their separate lives, but that involved work and spreadsheets and mission statements. Those things were going to remain. It was the fill-in, the remainder of his days that lay empty at his feet. Dave fidgeted with the button on his corduroy jacket. It was a fuzzy button. His thumbs seemed to like the feel of the fuzz. Booze would have been good. Stephen would have smuggled in some liquor, Dave thought.
He looked around and saw a lot of people he didn't recognize. There was a cute girl three rows back. At least, he thought she might have been cute; it was difficult to tell since she was wearing massive sunglasses. These sunglasses were ridiculous; you'd expect to see them on Victoria Beckham. It would have been a turn-off had they not been so damn funny. Dave snorted, stifling a laugh.
After the services, Dave went to Stephen's parents' house. About half of the procession was there, having tea, beer and snacks. Stephen's mom was a good host, and made sure there were plenty of sandwiches. Stephen's dad was silent and stayed in his chair in the study with a bottle of Johnny Walker.
Dave was standing in line at the snack table when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned around and it was a girl.
“Hey,” she said, “you mind telling me what was so funny?”
“Oh shit!” David said, “Sorry, I didn't recognize you without your glasses.”
“That was it, wasn't it?” she said. She had long auburn hair and fair skin. Dave was right, she was actually cute.
“So, you come here often?” she said jokingly.
Dave snorted again. “That's horrible,” he said.
“Horribly funny,” she said with a smile, “Listen, I'm hungry, but I need to step out. Come with?”
“Ok. Uh, sure,” Dave said.
He followed her out to the front porch.
She took out a Marlboro and lit it up, taking a long drag.
“Hey, can I get some of that?” Dave asked.
“Oh, you smoke?”
“No,” he said.
She handed him the cigarette and he puffed. He let out a little cough and then took one more puff before handing it back to her.
“Thanks,” he said, “I needed that.”
“So you're Dave,” she said.
What the fuck? How does she know that? Dave thought.
“Steve-O talked about you all the time,” she said, “I'm Emma.”
They shook hands. There was a cooler next to them, and Emma opened the cooler, pulled out two longnecks and handed one to Dave.
“His cousin, right?” Dave said. He vaguely remembered Stephen mentioning her once or twice. Of course, those times didn't involve Stephen mentioning how cute she was. Dave opened his beer and took a sip.
“He didn't tell you much about me, did he?” she said.
“Well-” Dave said taking another sip.
“It's okay,” she said, “I think he was still carrying around some weirdness from when I kissed him.”
Dave spat out the beer in surprise.
“He what?!”
“Oh no, no, it's not like that,” Emma said. She was pretty calm and nonchalant about it.
“It was when we were kids. We were, like, five. You know, before anybody tells you you're not supposed to kiss your cousins,” she said with a smirk, “But it's definitely worth that reaction, so maybe I'll change the story for future generations.”
She took a swig of her beer. Dave noticed a tattoo peeking out from her cardigan. It looked like it was a unicorn.
She threw up her empty hand in a metal horns gesture, and pronounced, “Unicorn power, man,” with a cheesy smirk. Dave laughed and took another drink.
“Listen,” Emma said while taking one last puff before putting the cigarette out, “You want to get out of here? I know exactly what Steve-O would want us to do.”
“Do you now?” Dave said glancing into the house.
“Don't worry about Aunt Sheila,” Emma said, “She can handle this. We need to drive.”
They then downed their beers and ran like children to Emma's '87 Buick. Emma started up the car and the stereo began blasting a tape of The Ramones' Rocket to Russia. They peeled out of the driveway, nearly hitting one of the neighbors, and sped off, screaming like banshees.
Stephen would have loved it.

5.
In Mexico, sometimes it's best to drink too much, and sometimes it's best not to drink at all. There really isn't much of a middle ground. Don't drink, and you can enjoy some touristy adventures and laugh at the drunks. Just drink enough to get drunk, and the next morning you'll remember the embarrassing things you did the night before. But drink the right amount, and nothing will be remembered, and in Mexico, that's what is best most of the time.
Unfortunately for Thaddeus, he didn't heed these words. He sat in the seat of a 737, waiting for his flight to lift off for San Diego. He had a hell of a hangover and was glad he booked the flight for Saturday and not Sunday. He was going to need that extra day to recover before returning to work. But it wasn't the hangover that really bugged him, it was the patches in his memory. And not the patches that were missing, rather the patches that were still there.
Nothing embarrassing happened last night, from what he could put together. Pre-drinking occurred at 5pm in their little cabin by the beach, and then he and his friends made their way to the strip for beach bar-hopping. Tequila shooters at Dirty Larry's, margaritas in giant cups at Jose's, Pacificos at The Sandy Vag; it was a tour of the drinks.
Eventually they met up with some other Americans and some Canadians, and they made their way onto the beach itself, away from the bars. Thaddeus and his buddies found some wood and debris and built a nice bonfire. The Canadians disappeared and returned with a couple cases of Corona. One of the other Americans retrieved their boombox from their buddy's RV. A party was had, every danced all night.
What he could actually remember, though, was a girl. She wore blue Chuck Taylors without socks, some torn up shorts made from old man slacks, and a cardigan over an old t-shirt that bore the words “PUERTO RICO SUAVE.” She was a little geeky like Thaddeus. Her sandy blonde hair was up. They talked for a while between bouts of spastic dancing. She liked Mel Brooks movies, bookmaking and collecting phone charms. They drank and drank and danced and danced, but no matter how much he drank it didn't relax his chest; his heart was in his throat. Thinking about it in the plane, he felt himself tighten up and sweat begin to build along his hairline.
What killed him was that he didn't get her number or email address or anything. What was he thinking? But now, now all he had was the image of her burned into his mind. He had wanted to nap on the plane, but when he closed his eyes all he saw was her. It taunted him. What was her name? Where was she from? Why couldn't he have drunk enough beer to not remember any of this? Would he have been better off?
This girl seemed like the girl of his dreams, and now she would haunt them for some time to come. Now Thaddeus had to go home, sleep in his twin bed, alone. He'd have to go to work, try to focus on reports and updates and meetings while this girl danced in his head like a pixie.
That's when he remembered one word: Carrie. That was her name! Carrie.
He said it out loud, “Carrie.”
He then took out his pocket notebook and a pen. He scribbled a picture of her from memory and wrote the name. He closed it back up and put it in his jacket pocket.
This was going to be the longest flight ever.

6.
Nick and Chelsea sat, as they usually did, at the 3rd table from the left of the door at Penny Java on the east side of town. Nick wore his favorite hoodie, Chelsea wore a denim jacket she found at the Salvation Army store.
“I don't know why I am with him sometimes,” Chelsea said between sips of latte.
“Me neither,” Nick said.
Nick realized some time ago that he was madly in love with Chelsea. He'd do anything for her, he thought. But he gave up on her years ago and decided to just to help her whenever and however she needed it. That's what friends did. Even if he never got anything in return but a hug or a “Thanks, you're sweet.”
That was the nature of their relationship. He listened to her problems, her hopes, her dreams, and she kept him company and gave him somebody to watch movies and drink beers with. Really, it had nearly all the facets of a decent relationship, just minus the sex. He didn't think of that. She'd have these boyfriends, these other guys, and Nick always wondered what exactly went on when they were together, because if she was telling nick all this stuff and doing these activities with him, what was left? Was it just sex? He was baffled.
“I bet he's just confused,” Nick said, “You know us guys. We're always confused. Especially when it comes to your kind.”
“We're not that hard to figure out, Nick,” Chelsea said.
Nick laughed. If she only knew.

7.
Seven was supposed to be a lucky number. That's why whenever I took the subway, I made sure to stick to a platform marker that added up to 7, be it 3-4, 4-3, 5-2, or 6-1. I had never even thought of myself as a suspicious person, but there I was every time. And nothing really ever came of it.
Then, one day, I was getting to the platform just as the train was getting ready to leave. So, naturally, I had to run.
“Fuck the sevens,” I thought, “I don't want to stand around waiting for the next train.”
I hopped on without noting the number, just glad I made it in time. The doors closed behind me, before an old man with a sack of fish could get in. Too bad for him, too good for me. I don't think I could stomach 25 minutes of dead pollack smell.
I found an empty seat and sat down. I pulled open my bag and dug out my Nintendo. Time to get in some “pokymans.” I flipped it open and started it up. When I looked up, there she was.
Directly across from me sat a goddess. Not like some made-up harlot in heels and too much make-up. A real goddess. Her skin was perfect, with very little make-up. Her hair didn't look like she put too much effort into it. She wore skinny jeans and a tee. Her shoes were slip-ons. She was playing Nintendo, too. And she saw me.
Oh, shit. I blushed and went back to my DS.
Then, she left. Gone. And I continued to my stop. But I checked the number when I exited.
2-3. 2+3=5. So now I always go for fives.

8.
We met at some hard-to-reach place. We danced to the oddest selection of music imaginable. You wore an old shirt with holes, softer than any hand-me-down I ever got from my father.
The cab ride sailed on the wind like the flight of the valkyries. Fuck Korea, we declared, Fuck Korea And All It Stands For! We Have Had It!
My heart raced. Nervousness and excitement set in.
At your apartment we sipped ginger tea and listened to David Bowie. How could this not be a great night? When people bond over David Bowie, anything is possible.
You laughed at my Twitter. You showed an interest in my ancient doodles on Flickr. I looked at your photography. I touched your leg. We talked about iTunes. We smoked cigarettes.
I farted.
Oh, how I farted. It was the shock of shocks. You took it well. "You must be comfortable," you quipped. I couldn't help but laugh in embarrassment.
Things went on. We talked and sat for hours. How many was it? I spent a year in that apartment that night. I touched the back of your neck, tipped your chin up, and kissed you. I had waited for hours to deliver this. And how addictive your lips were.
You had to go to bed. It was 6 in the morning. We had things of our own to see to later in the day. We would each need our rest.
I got your number.
And then... we kissed again. And one more time. I wanted so many more kisses, so many more times to touch those lips. They were the heroin for my heart. We promised to dance again, and then I left.
Left with a belly full of butterflies.

9.
Archie Insensate was in Math class. Algebra 3-4, to be more specific. He was bored. And bemused by the fact that he was recognizing the feeling of “boredom.” He kept thinking about tonight. He had no interest in seeing a gymnasium for cage fighters. The cage fight itself didn’t seem bad, it just seemed uninteresting, and a gym devoted to training a bunch of white males with buzzcuts that take part in these cage fights seemed… pointless. But Emma was going to be there. Emma, with her fiery red hair, her plastic frames, her tattoos… and that unicorn tattoo, too. Archie felt his internal processors in his abdomen malfunction. He was short of breath and it was good. He didn’t even pay attention to the teacher’s lecture. It was something about functions and inequalities or some bullshit; Archie didn’t know nor did he care.
Archie thought about the unicorn tattoo on Emma’s chest, near her collarbone. The outline looked purple against her pale milky skin. It looked soft, softer than any skin he had ever analyzed before. He remembered an idiom he picked up regarding the smoothness and softness of something that involved comparing it to the posterior of an infant. He wondered if maybe it would fit in this situation. Was Emma’s skin softer than a baby’s butt? He’d have to perform isolated tests, but how? He knew that people often used the ability to sleep on something as a way to test its softness. At least, that’s what the lady in the Serta ads was always doing. Should he try sleeping on a baby’s butt and then doing the same on Emma’s chest? His weight might crush the baby, he thought. That wouldn’t help the test at all. He’d go through a lot of infants if each test used up an entire baby. And one baby at a time wouldn’t do, either. He’d need enough babies to construct a makeshift baby mattress. He couldn’t very well skin the babies. That was just morally reprehensible. Would Emma be okay with him sleeping on her?
His heart pumped a little faster at this thought.
Then he had another thought: he wouldn’t be a very good test subject himself. Considering he wouldn’t be able to tell how comfortable if something would be for sleeping, as he didn’t need to sleep, perhaps it wouldn’t make sense for him to do it himself. He’d have to put an ad out for test subjects, probably. And then he’d have to compensate them. How much money would he need to pay someone to sleep on top of Emma? Would he have to pay Emma as well? These were all burning questions he needed answers to. What age group should he look for? Age, body type, prior sleeping problems; these were all important factors that could throw the entire test. And then he wouldn’t know for sure if Emma’s skin was as soft as a baby’s bottom. That would leave him back at square one.
He thought about grown men sleeping on top of babies and then sleeping on top of Emma. Jesus, what a stupid idea, he thought. Scratch that one. His nerve systems seemed to work, why couldn’t he just test for himself? Forget the babies; the babies alone would probably cost more money than what his fosters would front him, if they fronted him anything, and he wasn’t so sure the University or the Government would be keen to give him a grant for something that involved laying on babies.
In fact, what was called for was strictly one-on-one. He knew it. No test subjects, no infants, no elaborate experiments (unless she had one in mind), he would simply find out for himself. He made a mental list of things he needed to find out:
1.How soft was her skin?
2.Was the unicorn tattooed on her chest cloven hoofed or not?
3.What color bra was she wearing?
Wait, he thought, where did that last one come from? Perhaps another bug in the system. He hadn't thought about her underwear at all until now. What possible purpose could knowing their color have? It was illogical, damn it, and he would have none of it. He closed his eyes and focused really hard on erasing #3 from his memory bank. Erase erase erase!
He got dizzy from squeezing his eyes shut too hard, and his mind went back to the bra. Well, after all the bra was likely blocking part of the unicorn from his view. Yeah, that's it, he thought. I bet it's purple. He shook his head to try to get some logical thoughts going again.
He noticed another malfunction occurring, this one in his pants. That was enough to snap him out of his daze. He panicked a little. What was going on with his internal systems? This wasn't the first time such a thing occurred. It was worrisome, to say the least.

10.
Mike was peeved, to say the least. How many dates? How many fucking dates was it? 4? 5? Fuck, there was a reason he hated match class. It seemed to be going so well. How long was she waiting to do it?
How long was that evil little nymph waiting to dump his ass? After the first date? Second? Did she think to herself, “Eh, he's nothing special, but I like having my meals paid for; might as well milk it?”
Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
He bought her flowers. Fucking flowers. Every time. Something nice, something he put some thought into. They saw a movie. Was it the movie? That would be insane if it were the case, he thought.
He sat on the curb in front of the 7-11 with a King Cobra. This is what I'm reduced to, he thought. Four or five dates, hard work, planning, everything. For whom?
And then he thought about her. Her cropped golden blonde hair, the way she laughed at his jokes. How comfortable it felt to hold her. He could hold her for days; no, years. He could her her for years. This angel, this perfect girl...
This conniving, devious little witch! It was aggravating! She still had his shirt and a couple of Gogol Bordello CDs.
“Fuck,” he said aloud to his bottle of King Cobra.
No explanation was given. They went through the entire date like things were great. And then BAM! As he's walking her to her front door, she drops the bomb on him.
“Fucking Hiroshima, man,” he said.

11.
The back seat was moist and the windows fogged up. A t-shirt was draped over the passenger seat, and some panties dangled from the rearview mirror. The sun began to peek out above the horizon.
This is part of what Andy woke up to, the other part being warm body wrapped in his arms, both of them wrapped up in a blanket he had kept in the trunk.
She wasn't awake yet. At least, if she was she wasn't letting Andy know about it. Andy took a big, deep breath. It was a breath to end all breaths in the history of love, the universe and everything. He lived for these moments.
He could still smell the rosewater in her hair, and it mixed with his deodorant and hair stuff. Sweet smells, all of them, a mix that he didn't want to forget.
She moved her arm and a little sigh came out. The sunlight began to hit her hair, and her brown locks shined like a shampoo commercial; as if somebody came along in the middle of the night and sprinkled her with pixie dust.
He took in another breath to end all breaths. She slowly opened her eyes. They shined more than her hair, something that seemed an impossibility in Andy's mind at the time. Jaques Cousteau never witnessed such beautiful pigments of blue in his life. The eyes looked up at him and a tiny smile took shape.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey back,” Andy said.
“What time is it?” she said before yawning.
“Don't know,” Andy said, “Don't care.”
“Me neither, come to think of it,” she said back.
They looked at each other for several moments. Tiny explosions could be felt in their hearts. She stretched her neck up and kissed him the softest kiss he had ever felt. She relaxed and laid her head back down on his chest.
Then they both took a breath to end all breaths.

12.
When the plague hit, nobody saw it coming. They never do. Experts surmised that it came from chemical agents released in an accident that occurred at a military installation. This, they said, was why the military was the first to be crippled by it.
Shannah and Travis packed up some necessities and headed for his family's cabin in the mountains when it appeared things weren't going to get any better. It was just the two of them and the dog, Butch.
Butch was their best friend. They had brought him home from the shelter when he was a puppy, and he was supposed to be the test run for them; if they could prove to handle a dog together, then maybe kids?
Things were quiet in the mountains. There was nobody for miles, which meant it was the safest place to be. Travis' parents had installed satellite TV last year, so it wouldn't have been so bad. After the first week, the local stations all went dead. The cable news networks stayed on, but as time progressed their offices all over the country succumbed, leaving them with a shrinking amount of resources and things to fill airtime with. CNN was down to two anchors alternating shifts as their Atlanta HQ had been overrun by “looters.” That's all that was said. No information came forth, nobody knew what was going on.
Cell phones were apparently still good, but Shannah and Travis ran out of people that would answer by the end of the month. It was getting scary. The internet was abuzz, though. Other countries overseas were all watching as an entire continent was engulfed in disease and unrest.
When Travis disappeared, that was it. Shannah wanted to find him, but had promised him she wouldn't do such a thing if he had gone missing. They both had figured out that what was killing everybody wasn't something to bring into the house. So now it was just Shannah and Butch.
Butch never left her side. He was smarter than you'd expect from a dog. He didn't go running off in the woods, he didn't drag in anything questionable. Really, Shannah was relieved and blown away by this.
He simply kept watch of the front door, waiting for it to open. He saw himself as the first and last line of defense, it seemed.
Even though Travis was gone, Shannah still cooked for two. It was simply habit for her. She just ended up giving to Butch. He was worth it, she felt.
Butch liked it, but would have liked having Travis back even more.
Weeks passed. Shannah kept to the computer and television. More networks went off the air. The EU was putting together a resolution to send aid, but some members were apprehensive about exposing their people to whatever was killing Americans.
Then the water stopped. Shannah had no choice, she had to go down to the well and use the pump. She loaded Travis' father's shotgun, kissed Butch on the head and said, “Stay.”
And out the door she went.
Butch did just as he was told. He stayed. He stayed until his last breath.

13.
Thirteen was their number for love.
Alice and Marty were like two peas in a pod. Two bloody, angry, violent peas with a death wish and way too much money spent on liquor and cigarettes. When they partied, somebody ended up physically broken by the night was done, and only half of the time was it one of them.
Thirteen was the number of shots they would take together.
Marty was an office clerk by day. He filed papers, delivered mail, got coffee for everybody. He was well liked and nobody ever had a complain about how he did his job.
Alice was a school teacher. She taught English lit to 15-year-old assholes in the city. Her tattoos, piercings punky hair were outweighed in the schools eyes by the fact that she was one of the very few teachers with the balls to take the job.
By day, they were Alice and Marty, upstanding citizens. By night, they were Alice and Marty, motherfuckers.
Scientists and psychologists will spend years trying to figure out what made Alice and Marty who they were, and they will never figure it out. The truth is that what made them so wild and dangerous was love. Pure, rough-edge, old-fashioned love.
When the day was over, they'd come home, rip off their clothes and clad themselves in something more comfortable: jeans, sneakers, t-shirts, whatever. Then they'd hop in their Jetta (you got a problem with that?) and haul ass to the bars. There were a lot of bars. Some bars had a strict “No Alice No Marty No Way” rule. They just couldn't handle getting sued by another guy with a broken nose. Some other places, though, thrived on the chaotic insanity of Alice and Marty.
Because for all the danger, all the fights, all the stabbings, people genuinely liked Alice and Marty. They were fun, they were friendly and anybody could be at ease talking to them. Alice was sweet to everyone. Marty was a gentleman thru-and-thru. Was it so bad that after #13, Marty wanted to engage in outdoor parking lot wrestling? It was fun! Was it so bad that Alice wanted to pick fights with skinheads? Fuck no, skinheads deserve it.
But that's how it was. And people, the real people, the salt of the earth, they were cool with it. Yeah, okay, so maybe a little blood got spilled. Perhaps that guy didn't need to lose 4 teeth. But shit, Alice and Marty were so in love, it didn't matter. And that's why people liked them. They liked seeing two people in love.
In '06 it almost came to an end, if not for that love. Marty got collared for shoving a beer bottle in a biker's ass. But then something happened. The judge heard the eyewitness accounts. He listened to testimonies, he listened to the doctor that had to remove the bottle from the biker's rectum. He heard from the biker. And what did the judge say?
“I can't possibly, in my heart, see two young people in such love get separated by the law.”
And so felt fit to fine Marty a couple grand. I hear he's presiding over their wedding in March. It should be good. Just make sure to bring a couple cameras, because Alice is sure to smash one of them.

I feel wicked rad today. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I shaved off the chinhairs and now sport nothing but pure mustache. I feel like a man. A manly man. Maybe not nearly as manly as a full beard would give me, but a mustache is manly in its own right.
And I'm downloading lots of new music! Suck it, intellectual property rights! Go fuck yourselves, artists! I'm a man with a mustache and nothing can stop me now!

When I try to actually think of things, I can't. Then, when I'm in the middle of something else, my brain decides it's time to come up with random great ideas.
I sometimes manage to get them written down. Unfortunately, there are times when it just isn't possible. As much as I would like to, I simply can't stop the dentist during a cleaning to write down this great idea for a comic about dinosaurs. At least I don't have to drive anymore. That shit would always piss me off.
"Doo doo doo, I'm driving driving driving, turn right at Baseline---"
"SPACE SAMURAI VS. ROBOT GORILLAS ON THE MOON!"
"Shit! I gotta write this down, but I gotta drive! Okay, don't panic, I'll just remember this thought and focus on it until I get home."
Later, upon arriving home I pick up my notebook and a pencil, and write:
"LALALA I LIKE TACOS."
Fuck!
These days I sometimes just sit down and force myself to start drawing something. That's how the last threee comics I drew came about. They didn't work out horribly, did they? Unfortunately, that's the extent of my creativity.

I signed up for National Novel Writing Month the other day, remembering I had an idea for a book. Upon signing up, I couldn't for the life of me remember what my idea was. So now I shall contemplate what said idea had been until November 1st. At which point I will either remember my idea and write that or end up with 5,000 words about ninjas. Nobody wants that. (except Michael Dudikoff, but that's probably only if they're words about American Ninjas).

My brain is swiss cheese. Has been for a while. It could be any number of things: prescription meds taken during college (thanks, doc), too many blows to the head, drawing too much with Sharpies, or simply my rampant alcoholism. Sometimes, during conversations, I will forget a word that I use every day (such as "reference," which happened on Sunday while talking to my mother). I also can forget conversations themselves.

And now I sit here trying to remember the point of all this. See what I mean?

Forgive the shitty quality. I am sans scanner!

You are a Social Liberal (83% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (8% permissive) You are best described as a: Socialist Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also : The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

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First paintings since i left the US.

How do I know I'm a big fucking nerd? When I get drunk, all I want to do is talk about things like Jack Kirby's Fourth World and the inking of Chic Stone.

Yeah, I'm a fucking loser. How am I not living in my parents' basement?

That said, Chic Stone's handling of Kirby's pencils in Tales of Suspense and Silver Surfer satisfy me in ways my ex never could.

Because benitocereno demanded it!

Those damn dirty bears!

So, first there was the aforementioned fugitive bear in Macedonia. Now, there's a bear at a zoo in Japan who practices kung fu with a stick.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=poEwkIPKn3w

So...

Inspired by the true story.

"Bear convicted for theft of honey
By Paddy Clark
BBC News

The taste of honey was just too tempting for a bear in Macedonia, which repeatedly raided a beekeeper's hives.
Now it has a criminal record after a court found it guilty of theft and criminal damage.

But there was an empty dock in the court in the city of Bitola and no handcuffed bear, which was convicted in its absence.

The case was brought by the exasperated beekeeper after a year of trying vainly to protect his beehives.

For a while, he kept the animal away by buying a generator, lighting up the area, and playing thumping Serbian turbo-folk music.

But when the generator ran out of power and the music fell silent, the bear was back and the honey was gone once more.

"It attacked the beehives again," said beekeeper Zoran Kiseloski.

Because the animal had no owner and belonged to a protected species, the court ordered the state to pay for the damage to the hives - around $3,500 (£1,750; 2,238 euros).

The bear, meanwhile, remains at large - somewhere in Macedonia."

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/europe/7295559.stm

Fight the power, Mr. Bear. Down with the man.

I'm in Korea.

New Korea blog here:

http://corwinvskorea.blogspot.com

Just got an e-mail (finally) from my guy at the recruiting agency. Guess what? I don't leave on the 25th. I leave on the 16th. THIS SATURDAY MORNING.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

Um... well, if you want to see me one last time before I leave, give me a call.

Anybody that knows me, I mean really knows me, knows I've always drawn a connection between the Nazis and the Dallas Cowboys. Now I have proof!



Suck it, Cowboys!

Found this at the SubGenius blog.

Happy Hanukkah!

Where to start...

My mom decided it was time we embraced our noble roots, so now we are celebrating Jewish holidays. It's been interesting and educational. I now have my own yamulke, as well as kitschy Jewish novelties like a Budweiser t-shirt in Hebrew and a children's book of yiddish.
I guess our family on her side was jewish until roughly 75-100 years ago, when they converted to Lutheran. I have no problem reclaiming this heritage, and I embrace it, just as I embrace my Scottish and Swiss heritage. I do, however, worry that I might seem disrespectful to those who are maybe "real" Jews (I don't know what that means. I guess ones that are actually religious?), but I realize that's a silly feeling. I'm not religious. I don't believe in God. Being of Hebrew descent doesn't change that.
I'm going to eat pork. It tastes delicious. I'm not interested in reading the Torah. I don't plan on attending temple services or having a bar mitzvah (I'm not totally clear on whether or not I'm supposed to have one anyway). But I'll happily celebrate the holidays, for tradition and to carry on what somebody back in my family's past did. I see the holidays as more than simply religious days, I see them as a celebration of my lineage. And I have pride in that lineage.

Strangely enough, we still celebrate christmas. It's weird. I know. But then, we never celebrated x-mas for religious purposes. it was another tradition.

I read lots of stuff recently. My favorite? DOCTOR 13 from DC comics. GO BUY THIS TPB NOW. It has lots of old campy (read: GOOD) DC characters, and it makes fun of the current state of DC comics. I loved every panel of every page. I want more comics like it.
I also read the first part of that upcoming X-Men mega cro$$over, Messiah CompleX. It was boooooooring. I'm glad I currently work at a comic shop so I don't get tricked into spending money on this garbage. I'm warning you: if you like good comics, DO NOT BUY THIS. It is a very rare miss by Brubaker. I have loved so much of his work, in quality titles like Sleeper, Daredevil, Captain America, and Gotham Central. THIS IS NOT LIKE THOSE.
You've been warned.
When did Marc Silvestri start aping Michael Turner? It's not pretty.
Read GI Joe and Storm Shadow. Both are good.
Read Hack/Slash. I'm not big on horror titles, but this one is really cool. And funny.
Ooo, ooo, oo, and buy Umbrella Academy! It's the cat's meow! It really is! Buy it regardless of your feelings about My Chemical Romance!

Oh yeah...
I'm moving to Korea in February. Fun times will be had!

I've moved some things into my new room at my mom's house. It's strange to be living here again. My old room has been turned into a giant closet for my mom's clothes and shoes, so I'm now living in what was until this month the guest room.
I really didn't want to move again. I hate moving. I suppose I'd hate it less if I didn't have so much stuff, but it just disrupts me so much regardless. Having to pack things, unpack them, find a place for them in this new home... ugh.
I'm still moving stuff out of Jen's condo. It feels so weird to call it that. Anyway, I started moving a few things out today, packed some boxes of books, etc. I'll go back tomorrow for a load of stuff before she gets back from her trip to Vegas in the afternoon.
What am I doing now? It's been an odd state of chaos. Very little art. The occasional doodle, I suppose, some good reading here and there. I've been sitting on a script for a month now, which I should get started on yesterday. I've been really immersing myself in football, which I haven't done in years. It's great to look forward to Redskins on Sundays. I've been watching them since I was a toddler, and we have some players with real promise.
I wonder about the future. I don't know how long I'm going to be here, in this house. It doesn't freak me out at all, though. It's just an unknown. I guess this is the point where I should tell you that I applied for a job teaching English in Japan. I'm really hoping I get it, because now is the time for me to be doing this sort of thing. I'm single, young, no career yet, no real responsibilities keeping me here. Living somewhere for a whole year, much less a foreign country, is scary. But at the same time I see it as an entire year of new experiences. An entire year of learning new things, seeing things I have never seen before in my life. It blows my mind.
I miss Jen. It's true. But right now, I'm focusing on what I can do for myself now. I went out to Homme the other night with Nicole, and had a blast dancing to music I couldn't even recognize have of the time. I even got hit on. It was fantastic, and I didn't even drink.
I'm losing weight. Up until this week it was depression keeping me from wanting to eat, but now I'm simply eating less. Im still eating crap (fast food every day this week), but oh well. No caffeine since monday, thanks to my meds (talk about crazy jitters). No booze since the night of which we will not speak.
I've cooled off on the job hunt. I still check careerbuilder twice a week, but I'm not going crazy trying to get a "real" job. I'm making extra bucks doing manual labor for mom and Lana.
Things are looking up. Perhaps soon... comics? Drawings? Paintings? Oh noes!

I'm still trying to find a job. It's not going as well as I would hope, but I'm keeping my chin up. Well, I would if I actually had much of a chin, but that's neither here nor there.
My mom bought an investment property last week, and she and her partner needed some able bodies to do deolition work to the house. So, I'm going to be spending my free time getting in some hours over there, breaking down walls, ripping up carpets, stripping ceilings, tearing out cabinets, [in Gene Wilder voice] etc., etc., etc.
I put some holes in some walls today just for fun when she took me to see the place. It felt good to release some pent up emotion. Yay!
Things aren't so bad, all things considered, I guess. I mean, yeah, I'm hurting a lot. Yeah, I'm pretty angry at myself. Yeah, I really really miss the girl I love. But my mom and friends have been really good to me these past few weeks. I'm slowly getting back on medication, and we'll see how that works out. I'm going to be able to make some extra cash for the next several weeks, which means I can actually PAY BILLS (dear god!). I've managed to carve out a little corner of my mom's game room for me to paint and draw in. I'm still not comfortable here, but at least I have somewhere to sleep, right?