I wonder who will tell stories about me.

[KB.]

The stories of St. Louis are soon to end. At least the ones told in almost real time. I find myself feeling pretty shitty about it. Got to stay till November, got to get home by June, got to leave the right way, leaving the wrong way. Nothing to do now, but enjoy some good company on Saturday and Sunday. Maybe say something profound in the morning meeting my last day at work here on Friday. Maybe tell them to kiss my ass and just leave.

I got up earlier than I should have today, hardly four hours after I finally went to bed. I had my reasons, go and hang out with Mona and eat my crispy chicken sandwich, get that copy of my stories to Muse. It is ironic she was the reason I started writing again, and she will be the last involved in those stories to read them. The place just feels right to me, Joanie’s that is. I found myself sitting in one of my three usual spots; talking with an older gentleman about our inability to quit smoking, the medicine that turned his stomach to knots, and the lack of will power being the real reason for the habit to continue. Sounds like he has emphysema, that nasty disease helped to kill my Uncle I wrote my first story about. I lit a cigarette as he struggled to get volume in his voice. That is one very common fatal flaw. It was nice and cool inside, everyone said hello, and an old friend sat down close and talked to me a little. The old guy talked about finally getting rid of a car he has had for thirty-four years. His name is Michael. He hates Diet Pepsi, and anyone that hates Diet Pepsi is a friend of mine.

I dropped those 128 pages of train wreck I call my stories off in Lauren’s car, locked the door for her, and headed to work. I wondered if she will enjoy them all. Wish someone would write me a damn book. I’d take a one page letter at this point. Something tangible though. Something I can hold in my hands, smudge a little bit, fold up and stash away in some back corner behind the cobwebs. Something I can make a copy of and keep in my back pocket. Something without declarative statements in it.

I’ve been rather careful of the music I listen to these past few days. Maybe it was a good thing someone stole my car radio. Music can decide my day for me far too easily.

I think I’ll switch the story line a little bit, to something a little more self-reflecting.

I wonder what folks think about me. Don’t kid yourself, we all do that; no matter how much we try and say we don’t care, we all do. You may not care what random person at work thinks, but you care what some people think. I hope that I am the person that someone looks forward to seeing, that they know they will get a laugh or two at some point during the day if I am around. They know that if they need some help with something as mundane as getting the microwave off the bottom shelf because they are unable to lift it that all they have to do is ask, and I’ll be right there. I hope someone gets excited when they see I posted a new story. I wonder what adjectives my co-workers will use when they tell some silly story about me.

There is a book by Orson Scott Card, called “Speaker for the Dead”, I am not much into science fiction, but I love the idea behind this book. Eulogies are usually far too pretty. Don’t speak ill of the dead is the saying, but hell why not just tell the truth, and let the audience sort it out.

I figure everyone wants their story told, I wonder who will tell one about me. There is a thing though. My dad, he is a photographer, he never liked having his picture taken. What better way to stay out of the photo than to be the one taking it.

I can tell my story all day long, but it is filled with my details, my lies, my omissions. Need a different perspective. One that isn’t so worried about what other folks think. I wonder what folks think when I walk in the door. I’m downright mean sometimes, I smoke too much, and I cuss like a drunken, Irish sailor. I have a tendency to take things to an extreme; I can get loud just by the nature of my voice. I sound like a hillbilly. I used the words dissention and exponential in the same sentence today. Take that hillbilly sh!t and smoke it. Some folks say I am difficult, and well yeah I am. Nothing easy is worth having. That’s my version of it though.

One of these days my words are either going to be the death of me, or I’ll end up in Vernazza for a month or two doing nothing but looking at the ocean and eating olives fresh off the vine. I’ll either story myself into oblivion, or stop just in time to enjoy life a bit more.

I am still going to ask Norah Jones to marry me one day; she is still single isn’t she? She is so earth tone, makes me want to play in the dirt.

Think I decided on a third tattoo today. So far I’ve got the left arm reserved for Ishmael, the chest for Amantes sunt amentes, and I need to figure out a spot for the third. I think that will be it for me, a nice odd number. Would be five total.

My allergies are starting to kick in.

Don’t you want to be a fly on the wall?

I was just outside smoking, imagine that. I never finish a smoke; I usually smoke about two thirds of it and throw it out. A couple is walking by and she is lambasting him for all she has. You bastard she says, I can’t believe you smoked the last cigarette, I told you not to and you just lit it up in front of me. He walks over picks up one of my orphaned smokes, lights it up, takes a puff, and hands it to her. God bless that man, chivalry is not dead. I wanted to shake his hand. That was improv at its best.

No, I am not going to tell you what the third tattoo is going to be.

I was proud of that revised rendition of my stories, it had some extra things, some notes from me, said some things I should have said months ago, and it ended like it started, but better. Was a little heavy towards the end, but that’s cool. I hope the person I printed that out for looks at it and recognizes the magnitude of it. That took a lot for me to do. I think they will appreciate it more than anyone else has. Got to love a Kate, can’t do any wrong in her eyes. That’s just my imagination, but let me have it. I need to be able to think it that way for right now. She can have the last cigarette; I’ll gladly give it to her.

I need some Benadryl.

“Here's all you have to know about men and women: women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.”

~George Carlin

I’m guilty, shackle me, toss me into the tower and place the chains on me. Throw me to the lions. Off with my head I say!

“Cigarettes, whiskey and wild wild women

They'll drive you crazy, they'll drive you insane;

Cigarettes, whiskey and wild wild women

They'll drive you crazy, they'll drive you insane;”

~Tim Spencer

Big deal, normal is boring anyways. He says it like it is a burden or something.

“I prefer an interesting vice to a virtue that bores”

~Moliere

Three vices of mine, one I’ve given up for the most part. I did have a White Russian this past weekend, but just one. I may have a dozen or two come Saturday, but then I can go another 90 days without a drop. One I can not seem to be rid of, and I know all I have to do is just say no more. The last I enjoy far too much. I’ll give you three to one odds on the one that will do me in. It is the most interesting of the bunch. I need to learn some damned moderation is all. You can not quit me so quickly.

“Think not those faithful who praise all thy words and actions; but those who kindly reprove thy faults.”

~Mark Twain

The place I took my stories to be printed, it was local place, family owned. I paid more than double what I could have had it done at say a Minuteman press, but I like supporting the local industries. The man that did the printing for me, and apologized for not having a bind big enough for it, he came by work today. I was outside, not smoking, just sitting in the sun for a bit, soaking in a little peace and quiet. I saw him walking up the parking lot and waved at him. He walked over and sat down next to me. He told me he had something to tell me that embarrassed him. I told him to say what he needed to say. I wouldn’t think any thing of it I assured him. He told me had had read the first few pages of what I had written while he was printing it, and got curious, saved the file to his compute, and finished reading it Tuesday night. I told him I figured he would do so anyway, I would have. He told me he was sorry for prying, and he gave me my fifteen bucks back. I told him to keep it; I didn’t mind him reading it. He told me it wasn’t because he had read it, but because he enjoyed it. Told me he hoped things worked out for me, and that the next time I wanted something printed to just drop on by, as long as he could read it himself.

I wonder who will tell stories about me.

KB

[Peg]

I was just outside smoking, imagine that. I never finish a smoke; I usually smoke about two thirds of it and throw it out. A couple is walking by and she is lambasting him for all she has. You bastard she says, I can’t believe you smoked the last cigarette, I told you not to and you just lit it up in front of me. He walks over picks up one of my orphaned smokes, lights it up, takes a puff, and hands it to her. God bless that man, chivalry is not dead. I wanted to shake his hand. That was improv at its best.
That just cracked me up. :wah:

[KB.]

Peg;626029 wrote: That just cracked me up. :wah:


I laughed harder than I had in a long time when he did that. She just looked at him like he was a fool. He shrugged, and kept on walking. Sometimes you just got to do that; shrug and keep on walking.

[Peg]

KB.;626033 wrote: I laughed harder than I had in a long time when he did that. She just looked at him like he was a fool. He shrugged, and kept on walking. Sometimes you just got to do that; shrug and keep on walking.


Very true.

[KB.]

Ah, I see you are a bartender. My favorite people in the world are bartenders, my Muse is even a bartender. My hat is off to you, one of the best, but most under appreciated professions in the world.