Man-Size (man_size) wrote,
Man-Size
man_size

You can't spell "demand" without D. E. A. N.

I have spoken to SBX for no more than ten minutes since she split for the UK, almost two weeks ago. SBX isn't the sort to phone when abroad. She's okay with the hiatus, stopping only for email and postcards [my favorite]. Besides, she has two daughters to juggle and family & friends to engage. I don't like communication gaps, especially, on the heels of terrorism occurring a few miles from where she's staying but that's the nature of travel. Perhaps SBX stumbled upon some nefarious plan the phone companies concocted to promote fear so they can make bank from the scared and sentimental and she refuses to buy into it? There goes my velvet mind in overdrive again. To her credit, SBX has broken her usual policy and kept me informed of her daily events and thoughts about us and left a few messages on my phones. In fact, she called me in the middle of typing this here anxious missive. Somehow, intermittent cyber scrimmage makes me an insomniac when I don't hear her voice everyday. I should feel lucky that I miss someone.

My old shattered heel and torn ligament injury is swollen and the foot is purple and betraying my limp like a low-budget zombie. Leaning on my broke right knee ain't helping none neither. I think Doc Marten finally beat me. Today, I put my new $150 kicks to the side and put on an old pair of dusty mustard green shoes which were convalescing under a tote bag in my closet. The Docs mock me.

Meanwhile, I saw LAND OF THE DEAD and WAR OF THE WORLDS. Albeit authentic Romero, DEAD had a few good ideas but the B-movie execution and acting [which I usually forgive in most horror, especially Romero horror] sucked worse than a bad John Carpenter film. Surprisingly, I liked WAR. It messed me up -- all that carnage. The effects were chilling. The ideas, close to home. Naturally, both films made me think about 9/11, THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK, the recent London bombings, and my eventual demise. Everything is about control and lack thereof. I have it on good authority I won't blow up from a bomb. My fate is to die by car accident, checking out some chicks 22-year old ass while riding my bike. Then, we'll see if I rise and troll for human chum because there's "no room in Hell."
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