Pipes

He sits, he thinks. He watches her smile. "Gorgeous, " he thinks. "Absolutely gorgeous." Then, "Damn." Then, "alone. I'm so fucking alone. We're all alone. Accept for her it seems. Even when she's not with someone, she's not alone. Friends and smiles all around her always."

He tosses his cigarette and stands shoving his hands down his ripped jean pockets. He goes up to her, she leans on him. He feels special. Well, just as special as the next person she hugs after him. Which, from his point of view, looks pathetic. It's not about the person she's hugging - she knows what effect she has on other people; and loves giving out love, so it's more all about her; giving out love. This is her having a good time. With all her love she's somehow managed to control her environment. She exudes a temporal welcoming to anyone present; through touch, through looks, through conversation. She sees what is acceptable to the person she in contact with and respects their boundaries. Their prideful fences. But what she's interested in is the house that which this fence surrounds. She wants to walk around inside and see how the house was built and how well it operates. So, she sits waiting by that fence with a smile and a heavenly presence that is irresistible. It is absolutely impossible for anyone to not want to let this woman into their fence; to browse; innocently; never judging what she encounters; and the deeper she ventures, the more blemishes and leaky pipes she finds in one's horrid infrastructure. Her true desire is to tend to these leaky pipes, and one has the privilege to allow her to do so. She helps by stopping those leaks. And through her tenderness, one forgets that these blemishes and faulty portions of their infrastructure even exist... while she's there. But as one observes how this satisfies her so, one begins to wonder, "how many other fences have been opened to her? And how many people have allowed her in that now depend on her presence to keep their infrastructure stable?" Yet, who could possibly resist this woman's interest in them? Because that is what she is doing and is so adept at; actively taking interest in every person, every joke, every present situation.

Amiably, she ingratiates herself at a pace that one sets for her. Every thing is "OK" in her eyes. So, if you're not ready to let her into your gate, that is totally fine. She'll always be there, ready when you are. And it's joyous when she enters. But beware, she'll always be there once you let her in. Even if you haven't seen her for days, weeks, months, years, her presence is felt like a ghost walking on your property and haunting the once mended proverbial leaky pipes. Only now those pipes you were once able to forget about, thanks to her, now are at the foreground of your ever thought. It's torture that at one time you knew what it was like to live with out them. Because before you met her it seemed impossible to even imagine an existence like that. In fact, you may have even developed a life style which became accustomed to these leaks; a life style able to work with or around them if possible. It was tolerable. And now it's intolerable. And you can never return to that somewhat tolerable existence you once knew. You want more.

Knowing what life can be like with out the presence of these leaks, all you can think of is going back to those precious moments of euphoria. The thought becomes a leak itself, and it floods your mind.

No reason vindicating her for this. She's just being herself. But, look how many leaky houses she visits. Look at how many people are flooded after she leaves them to go hug another. It's almost disgusting. Maybe just painful. A leak of yearning. A jealous person could see her actions as selfish. As if she came on to one's property only to install a pipe that accesses a deeper yearning than one could ever imagine, and as she leaves to go and hug another she twists loose the nut and lets the pipe leak for her. Twists it so that it renders the pipe useless and a gush of yearning floods the floors and spills out the front door. It gets so bad that the flooding reaches the gate set there to protect one from exuding emotions one would prefer kept secret. This liquid yearning slips past any such a barrier and exposes to everyone this new obsessive feeling.

That is where he is caught right now. Standing. Staring. Overtly self-conscious. He needs to either stop staring and pretend to engage in a conversation with someone else present; whom she has also hugged, or he could turn and walk away. Deal with this emotional flood on his own. But, turning and walking is what he's done so often on these occasions. And he does not want to engage in a phony conversation. So he prefers to be translucent. And he's deciding now, "fuck the fence. Who says you need one to begin with? She doesn't seem to have one. Or maybe she does and no one is allowed in. Maybe she's so good at waiting at other peoples' fences, she never pays any attention to her own... that's a new thought. I wouldn't have had that thought if I didn't stick around and shamelessly gaze at who I yearn for so fervently. It feels good to treat emotions as pure and not to avoid or suppress."

He thinks that if maybe he could continue this honest existence she could possibly be inspired by him in some way; the way she inspires others. He now feels he needs to test this honest emotion. To act on it. But how? How does one prove he is honest unless one is presented an honest situation?

He'll wait. Wait for a good moment and test himself then... As of now, he looks at those people she has hugged and realizes that none of this interests him. He can honestly say that. And now that an honest situation has presented itself, he can act on it. He leaves. He thanks her silently for giving him a feeling of peace as he makes this choice. It wasn't to avoid or suppress. Or to spite her or anyone there who she had hugged. In fact it was quite logical to him and not controlled by any other factor other than his self interest. One of the purest decisions he's ever made.

panic

Grab my wallet. Grab my checks. Who'm i writing checks to? Pen? There it is. Ok. Tuck it in. flatten the creases. They're not going away. Ok. Fuck it. let's go. - Deep breath . Ok. Down the steps. Bye-bye to the great sexy woman. Goodbye. Wish me good luck, baby? No? Ok. No worry. Take care. Front door and I'm out. Sunny as shit. Damn. Damn this sun. I can barely fucking see. And I'm going to be sweating in ten friggin seconds. C'mon car be unlocked. Of course it's locked. Of course of course. Alright. 1st gear let's go. Bently's got two babies. A year apart? A year apart. Steve is gone on vacation. Who's replacing him? I needed Steve to be there. Fuckin' Steve. What the hell, man. He can go anywhere, at any time. And those women. The man has STD's, I'm sure. I hope he pays for the girls medications and doctors visits. That cheap fucker. That selfish bitch. Whatever. This has to happen. This is it. And if it isn't, then it's over to Chase. Chase and Richard. Richard with the cancer. Cancer and the mustache. Ok. Here we go. Walking. Clear the head. 80,000. That's what I'm going for. 2.1 interest and quarterly payments. Quarterly payments. 80,000. 2.1. -Deep breath.

Cute lady behind the counter. Very nice. Hello. Yup. Long hallway. Very fucking long hallway. Jesus. How many people work here? Are they all loans? Jesus. I'm not going to get this. 80,000. 80, thousand. Deep breath. Knock loud. Knock like you've got someplace else to be. Smile, look at my watch. Yup. It's five till. Yup. I'm early. Surely, I'll sit where ever the fuck. Thank you. Yeah? No. Really? Sure. Scotch. Mmm. Oh, thanks. Sip? Yeah. Fuck I'm shaking. Drink. Deep breath- wow. I can't drink this. What did I eat today? Not much. Am I hungry? No, I'm nervous and they're so cool. They're cool as shit. They don't care about this. This is just eating up their day. This isn't going to happen. And Steve is not here. 80,000. No that is not a joke. Oh, you're joking. That's funny. No that is not funny. Yes. 80,000. Well, Steve said he'd allow me the interest rate to be as low as 2.1 percent. Yes, sir. Steve is on vacation. You can talk to him all you want. Please make this happen here, today, though. I really can't wait for Steve. C'mon, c'mon. Fucking Steve. Fuck Steve. Selfish mother fucker. Oh, god. yeah, here's all the paper work. You already have it in my file. You have my file in that computer. That is hilarious he doesn't even need to bring up my file. He's never looked at my file. This dude. Oh man. Oh please. That's dated yesterday, sir. Printed them especially for you. I was agreeing to quarterly payments. When I was talking with Steve. Vancouver. I think he's in Vancouver. I have no idea what's he's doing in Vancouver, sir. Why? We don't have to wait until he gets back. Well, his out box message from his email says he'll return the 23rd. No, I was hoping to get this sooner, sir. I really wish to - OK. Alright. Yeah. No, that's fine. Sorry. We'll speak about this when Steve gets back then. Thank you for your time. Yeah. Take care. Oh, my god. I'll see my own fucking way out thanks. Just looking at the carpet. Just getting the hell out. Down this huge hallway. I forgot to mention Bently's babies. Damn it. I was rushing. Now it's really not going to happen. Well, it doesn't matter. I wouldn't be able to wait until Steve got back anyway. Damn it. Chase. Chase and a mustache with cancer. Oh, god. Now I really can't look nervous, stressed or like this is my only option. Oh fuck. This is my only option. Why the fuck do I ever lock my door? Damn this piece of shit car. I wish it would get stolen and I could cash in on that ridiculous insurance. God I need this money. Ok. I need to breathe. Red light. Just cool it. Breathe. Green. If this guy fucking cuts me off. Damn it! God, punching the dashboard hurts. Errrr. It hurts! That fucking driver! Breathe. My heart is pumping. I can feel it in my chest man. Cool it. Could I get a heart attack this young? Never say never. Never say never? When the hell did I start saying that phrase? Red light. Great, right next to the douche bag. Glad he sped up and cut me off just to get to this light sooner than me. Ass-hole. Green. Let's park this car far from the entrance. I just want to walk up. I don't want them to see me getting out of this piece of shit. Lock the door? Not this time. Is it Richard? it's Richard with the cancer. Oh, man I hope I don't say that out loud. Another nice looking receptionist. Good looking. Damn. Are my palms sweaty? That is sad I can predict that woman would make my palms sweaty. My girl is just fine for me. I should be lusting for her and not the palm sweat inducing beauty not deserving such devotion. But damn I would be devoted if she'd let me. Knock again. New approach? Maybe courteous this time? I've got no place else to be. I'm ready. I have my papers. I'm in no hurry. Hello. Smile greet'em with pleasure. I'm plastic and they see through me, but they all are plastic as well. This is going fine. I smell like scotch? Oh, I just had lunch with a buddy. He's getting married. Then to Tahiti. Yeah. He kind of decided Tahiti over lunch. The Hawaiian decor somehow made him think of Tahiti, and he'd never been. Uh, June. June something. I don't think he even knows. So, yeah. Richard right? Thanks, a seat would be nice. Yeah, here you are, all the paper work is in there. Still sweating from the palms. Damn that. Let's just remain still. Let's not rub the sweat. I bet I stink. Yeah, I definitely can smell fumes creeping up through my collar. I'm really glad there is a desk between us. Oh. Oh sorry, yes I realize you don't really do quarterly payments here. That file was for a different uh- y'know I'm just weighing my options. The right papers are actually in my car, I must have switched them. Do you have a minute? It'll only take a minute. I don't mean to tie you up, sorry. Um... tomorrow? No, I understand lunch is important. Let me just grab the papers and I'll be back in a flash. Tomorrow? Really? Ummmm.... Yeah... 3 could work for me. No, you don't have to call me to confirm, I'll call you. Wow, I'm really sorry I came so unprepared. This is embarrassing, but tomorrow. I'll be here 3pm sharp. Yes, thank you sir. OK then. Have a good lunch... Where the hell does this guy go for lunch that he needs to rush there? Who's his date that couldn't wait a few minutes? He must be on someone else's clock. He must be fucking someone. A hotel arrangement with a hooker. One hour starting after the ten minutes it takes him to drive there. Damn it, the hot girl again. Of course she doesn't look at me. She doesn't need to. She knows I'd be devoted. Any man would. Especially a desperate one like me. God I hate being so desperate! I need cash. I need fucking money. tomorrow!? I'm going to go crazy tonight. How the fuck can I get money? Rob a fucking store? This is insane. I need to eat some food maybe. Maybe thick meat. That'll make me tired and I'll calm the fuck down. Cool off. breathe.

Lazy

The door bell rings and he thinks,"Oh, shit. I have no interest in getting that door. I should give the pizza guy my house key, so he can walk in and plop that freshly baked pizza on my lap and I wouldn't have to get up to do the exchange." He lurches his neck toward the front room. "It's open!"
The door handle rattles, but doesn't budge. There is a muffled response coming from behind the door.
He finally looks at the paraphernalia surrounding him on the comforter. "I'm coming!" He starts plotting his reluctant escape from his comfortable solace. "God, I hate moving all this shit. I hate getting out of bed." He screams"Hold on" to the front room to buy him some more time, then thinks, "I'll put the bong right here next to my pillow on the floor, so I know it's close when I need it. And the weed next to that, and the water glass next to that. I need a piss pan. I hate getting up to go to the bathroom. What do you call those things? Oh, fuck it. I don't want to think about that for too long. Here I go. Up and moving forward. Oh, my knees are week. Am I getting fatter? Who cares? Do I know anyone who would care? I don't. When's the last time I got up? I had to have taken a shit yesterday... I don't remember."
The door opens. "yeah."
"Large pepperoni pizza."
(sigh) "yeah, what is it? 17 something?"
"18.28 sir."
"...28? What the hell is that?" Cash is yanked from his pocket. Coins scatter all over the floor. The pizza man looks down. He's still holding the pizza.
"Don't worry about it. I'll vacuum it up later." (sigh) "Is 20 good? Of course it is. here."
The 20 dollar bill is shoved into the pizza man's breast pocket and the pizza is ripped from his fingers. the door slams.
"I just want to fucking lay down. I hate moseying across this carpet. This carpet is thick. It's tiresome to walk through. I should get thinner carpet. Should I get it changed? No, people would have to come to do it. I'm not going to change this shit myself. They'd probably need me to move the bed, though. Or, tell me to get off it so they could move it. Maybe I could get them to do all the carpeting around the bed and not worry about changing the carpet under the bed. I could just sit here and smoke and watch them work.
"The thought of all this is tiring me out. I'm just gonna lay down... put the pizza box over here and - ahhhh. let's see." he opens the pizza box. "Ranch! Damn. It's in the fridge. Damn. No ranch then... Napkins? Fuck it. I'll just wipe my greasy fingers on the other side of this mattress. If I have the energy.
"Damn that walk to the door tired me out. I'll just rest here a bit. My feet are cold. Fuck'em, I won't die if I leave them out for a little nap. I don't think I can handle tossing a blanket over them right now. My arms feel nice and sung under my chest. I've never felt so comfortable. If only my feet could be warm. I should get a maid. She'd cover my feet. Shit she'd probably rub'em for me and put some moisturizing lotion on them as well. I wonder if I could seriously find a cheap one.
"The pizza will go cold. Well, it doesn't matter. Cold pizza is never bad. it'll be fine. I'm just going to close my eyes here, and yeah.... that feels so nice. ahhh. Fuck moving forever. I just want to lay here and breathe. If i didn't have to get hungry or take shits all would be perfect. This is what I live for. This is perfect."

This little human...

Look at this human. Look at how sad it looks. What does this little human really have to be sad about? Why is it so confused? Why can't it just lighten up like those around him? Why does it pout so when it's alone? What is the point of it doing absolutely nothing other than staring at a wall it'll eventually hit? Oh, how funny, it did hit that wall. See I predicted it. What a predictable little human. And look, it can't stop thinking about someone watching it. How funny. It's trying to prove to me that it's doing something to make me believe it's not paranoid that someone is watching, but can never rid itself of the constant watch it feels it's under. Oh, now it's trying to convince itself that it's not ashamed of doing things for itself, like masturbating, or looking at itself in the mirror, or choosing to read some political book that it'll never truly understand and only seems to be trying to retain morsels of information to repeat them as some banality in casual conversation. What is really interesting to this human? It's not apparent. I don't notice a pattern in hobbies. Or even a consistent schedule. It must be that it's interested in the fact or belief that someone is always watching it. Because look, it can't stop thinking about it. How sad. Look at all those other humans around it, just casually living their lives with out the constant fear that some non-existent higher being is judging their every move. Why is this little human plagued by that? Well, that's its own problem. I'll just sit back and watch and observe it self destruct into either tears or a desperate need of sleep with the hope of never waking up. How odd this human is...

Controlled Anarchy: reworked

I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come to her home and stick my dick in her. I don't say this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, to her - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That's what women like her want. That is what she is proposing. And that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. A condom might break, or better yet, she may have no condom, and neither do I - which won't prevent us from the act, and all I am to wonder is, "Who is this woman? She may leave me with a rash that requires constant application of cream. What number am I on her tally chart of men she's picked up from a bar and rubbed the crotch of?"
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.

Change of pace: noir-ish...

He watches her. "All too often?" he thinks often. It's Autumn. But that doesn't really matter here. Everything remains green. She rakes the front of her father's bank in a mini-skirt. All pine needles. It takes her an hour to rake the needles which could be a ten minute job with a broom. She likes being out there, he knows it. He watches this every Tuesday. And he hates himself every day that he does. Expecting her to be out there to perv on. "How absolutely horribly sad," he repeats to himself; holding his whiskey. He looks down at his drink and promises himself that he will go back to Coors Light.

Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.

He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."

He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.

"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."

He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.

Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.

Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.

Anything will help

Every time i have sex with my girlfriend I am always thinking of ways to get her fingers in my ass. I've tried directly addressing my issue. she told me to fuck off then stormed out. I went through painful withdrawals from a heroine stint I went on for weeks after she left, but she returned to me and I instantly quit. she made me promise never to ask her of that sexual favor ever again. She then told me of a tragic experience she had when she accidentally killed a previous lover through acts kinky sexual perversion. She couldn't place the actual cause of death but her finger was certainly inside his butt hole when he died. So, naturally, she partly attributes the blame of his death on her self and her desires to finger anything stinky and warm. I respected her wishes, but sometimes she catches me with my own finger in my ass during our love making. we don't speak of those rare occurrences. I forget to take her past into consideration when I attempt to satiate my longing for perverse anal stimulation. I don't feel good about having to hide that desire though. I love this woman. I want it to work out, but speaking of this intense desire of mine seems to push her away. It's like I can even tell when she sees me thinking about it. She looks hurt, but braves the moment of contention between us because she and I both know that what we have is more important than a little finger in my ass. At least that's what all the couple-counselors have told us. But she can't go to anymore of those, we've tried so many and no one seems to be able to help. She cannot handle exposing her vulnerable past to any new ears any longer. So, I've thought to ask you for advice. see what I might be able to do that doesn't include her direct involvement or participation. Anything will help. Thank you.