DREAM: My boss is putting the moves on me but in a subtle way. Her Chinese eyes stand out as I ride with her to her home. Inside, I notice a big room with many beds and a curtain bordering the room’s perimeter. She tackles me on the couch. We start having sex with most of our clothes still on. At some point I slip out and she’s concerned about this big contact lens falling out of her. I guess it’s supposed to work as a contraceptive. Her friend nearby warns us that the husband, who is the chef of China Wok, is just outside the door.
Waking up around 3:15 p.m.
Emily is back home and so is wild Ambrotious (I think I missed him).
Elliott walks in with Fera, his ferret.
Breakfast: Toasted Bagel with Butter and Blackcurrant Jam. Orange Juice. Zinc, Vitamin E, Alfalfa Grain.
Work at the ice cream shop.
Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich with Lettuce and Tomato. Salt N Vinegar Chips. Mango Oolong Tea.
Eating one of the Berger Cookies Emily got me from Maryland.
Reading a newspaper article about a homeless man that got run over by a dump truck while he was sleeping on the beach.
Monica, one of the managers, comes in with her little girl. We discover a dead moth in the corner of the room. He looks more like a butterfly. The girl is begging to see it, “Can I see?!”
It starts pouring down rain. Four teenagers, a boy and three girls, from Smithfield pile into the shop to get out of the rain. The boy, Brandon, comments on the sign that we have posted:
ATM in Tackle Shop
(sorry for any inconvenience)
I tell him, “The least you could do is forgive us.”
He challenges me to guess the blonde girl’s age whose name is Nicolette. “I’m actually good at this…hmmm…14?” I guess right.
All of them end up hanging out in the shop for a few hours. Jacquelyne helps me draw a Hello Kitty face, which is a part of Margot’s birthday present I’m making.
This black kid, Jordan, who already bought three small strawberry ice cream cones in a row, asks to listen to my band, Tokyo. He tells me he makes music videos and I should give him a call.
Margot’s 21st Birthday Party at the house.
Trying to make dinner in the kitchen but too many people crowding around me.
Dinner: Spinach Salad. Lasagna. Garlic Naan Bread. Spiked Punch.
Foosball in the attic.
What is the equation for anger? ****!!!!!!!☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ☼x8+5Ü╜3\╕╝▐M○xτ
A repeating jumble of predictions and expectations causing one to be in a furious state of mayhem.
I almost called the cops because you ‘flipped a lid’. When you begin this chaotic state, you become completely self-absorbed and disrespectful. It’s all about you! It’s all about you! When you’re angry you provoke me to anger. I don’t want to be like that. I refuse. It turns me into an uncontrollable demon. I don’t understand. Did you drink too much? Did you experience too many disappointments? You’re yelling at me, “Get out here and talk to me!!” I specifically ask you to leave, “Look, you’re angry and I don’t understand it. It’s making me angry and I can’t talk to you. You need to cool off.” Each time I close the door you start banging on it. You insult me by calling me every bad name you can think of. How do you expect me to respond? And yes I demand an apology for the way you acted. I have no words to explain the monster you became tonight. It’s sad to say that this is not an unfamiliar thing to me. You have an unhealthy attachment to me and there’s nothing I can do to help.
On a whim, I hop into my van and drive to your place, swerving and speeding through the winding back roads of your neighborhood and smoking on a Sampoerna. Tapping on the window to your room; you’re obviously asleep. I tell you I don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to be here for you. I can’t help it though. I talk anyway and speak my mind analyzing what just happened and the why and the what and the how. In the end, we exchange pleasure as some sort of appeasement between each other in hopes that it will cover up the night’s battle scars, in which it does. Yes, it does help. But what about the long run? What about the bigger picture? What’s going to change?
Back home. Eating a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats.
Sleep 7 a.m.