Archives for June 2015

#197 Synchronicity

#197  Synchronicity

 

We got married in my sleep. She turned out to be a burden and I was sorry for tying that matrimonial knot. I anticipated years of discontent, a nagging wife, unappreciative kids, and a dog who didn’t give a damn as long as he was fed. Full of dread, I resolved to do my best to make my commitment last.

Morning came, and to my surprise, I was alone in my bed when I awoke. Still a single man, I thought. I had my morning coffee and opened my e-mail where I found a Dear Joe note from the bride in my dream. I knew it was a sign sent by a benevolent power as a gift to set me free to pursue other dreams I might have. Someday, because of the needs Mother Nature instills in every man, I’d marry. But I decided to take advantage of my reprieve and do manly things before the day that I’d be cornered, trapped, and required to tie that knot.

I headed for the Beehive, my favorite bar. I was the only one there besides Red the bartender. “Give me a Miller Beer and a shot of schnapps.”

“Rough night, Joe?”

“I had a dream and need to wash the dregs of it right out of my head.”

“Want to talk about it?” Red inquired like any good bartender. Having a bartender listen to their problems was reason enough to drink for many of my friends.

“Before I get married,” I said, “I want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa. After that, I want to travel all 4,000 miles of the Amazon, and explore Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, and Chile for lost Inca treasures.”

“Sort of Hemingwayish, huh?”

“Guess you can say that. Give me another beer and a double shot.”

“Ya ever stop to think while you’re on that 4,000 mile trip down the Amazon that there’ll be no bars along the way?”

“I’ll drink jungle juice instead.”

“What?”

“Whatever the natives drink, that’s what I’ll have for breakfast every morning.”

“I hear there are still head hunters roaming around down there.”

“No problemo, I’ll have an AK-47 to take care of troublemakers.”

`         “You think an AK assault rifle will do the job?” Red asked.

The door swung open and a ray of sunshine blinded me as a big man barged in. Every seat in the place was empty, but he sat next to me.

“Name’s Bob,” he said.

After three beers and a few shots, generosity flowed through me. It always did – another reason I knew I shouldn’t drink so much. But what the hell, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

“Give me another beer and give Bob here one too.”

“Don’t remember me, do you?” Bob asked in a tone that held a challenge.

“Nope.”

“We met at the wedding yesterday.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Nobody got married.”

“How could it be a wedding if no one got married?” Bob was starting to get on my nerves. If he got out of line, I’d kick his ass. It didn’t bother me that he stood six inches taller and weighed fifty pounds more than me. I had drunk enough to feel my beer muscles grow, and once they swelled to capacity, I felt like Superman.

“You were supposed to marry my sister.” Bob stood up with an aggressive grimace on his face.

I had been taking so many drugs lately to keep me awake while I drank, I didn’t know who he or his sister was. “You sure you got the right guy?”

He grabbed the front of my shirt and twisted it until it closed tightly around my neck.

“Yeah, I got the guy who left my sister crying at the altar and he needs a serious ass whipping.”

Red watched and I knew he was thinking if I couldn’t handle this guy, how would I be able to take on headhunters in the jungle? I grabbed a beer bottle, smashed it into Bob’s face, and kicked him in the nuts. He bent over in pain. I kneed him in the face as I hammered the back of his head with both fists. He fell to the floor unconscious.

“Give me another beer. The one I had got broken.”

Red put a frosty cold Miller in front of me. “Guess maybe you’ll do all right against those savages in the South American jungles.”

Blinded again as the door was yanked open, I saw a woman in the doorway backlit by sunlight. She glowed like an avenging angel. It was her, the bride in my dream. “Still drinking I see,” she said and came at me with a knife in her hand and a glint in her eyes.

I backed up and tripped over Bob, who shook blood from his face and then grabbed me by the leg.

“Hold him while I cut off his thing,” the one who looked like an avenging angel said. She must be driven by the devil to want to do something like that. I broke free and ran out the door, and Red’s laughter followed me to the end of the alley where I parked my car.

All the windows were broken and the seats cut into rags. A note hung from the driver’s side visor. When you were about to marry me, you showed up drunk. You said I’d be a burden and our kids would suck. You left me looking like a fool, so this damage is for those terrible things you said to me.

It wasn’t a dream I had, but a nightmare that turned into reality!

 

#196 Starry Starry Night

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The moonlit night sky above Prescott, Valley Arizona, twinkles with countless stars as I lie in my hot tub gazing above. Lessons that taught me to believe the stars are heavenly lights winking at me have become fictitious sine I grew to be a man. I now question that and many more of my beliefs.

What if all I see is all make-believe? What if what I see is a hologram projected onto the sky to make me believe I see twinkling stars? How do I know I’m not a puppet in a show? Maybe those lights are nothing but holes in fabric and through them shimmering eyes are looking at me?

Maybe I’m a projection on a screen, watched by those twinkling far-away eyes as though I’m in a zoo. Do they want to see what I’ll do in situations orchestrated for me? Could I be an actor on a stage set just for me? Do projected thoughts cause me to act as I do? Do those far-away eyes like to watch how asinine, atrocious, irate, tender, kind, and loving I can be?  I realize that if my life here is orchestrated, then those minds must be infantile or demented to cause the havoc that goes on around this world. I conclude that if true, the answer is that this world is just a child’s toy.

 

#195 I Believe – Not

#195   I Believe – Not

Joe tried to please his wife in bed but could never measure up. Whatever he tried, his wife wanted the opposite. She’d complain that having sex didn’t last long enough. When he extended the act, she said, “It lasts way too long.”

Unable to please her, Joe left. After a few years of carousing, he returned. “I’m now man enough to make your nights paradise,” he said. “Because you lay incredible eroticism on me, my hands cannot stay still and won’t stop roaming your softest flesh. I know you need your rest, but urges surge. I can’t let you sleep away any time we have together.

“Your touch electrifies my every nerve. I stand erect, incapable of not craving another part of you. Shocks touch my small brain. It takes charge, and warns every body part to be on alert, to search out and feel any part of you energizing my very being.  You excite my libido even though it’s been with Rip Van Winkle for many years. It’s now awake and raring to go where, hopefully, no man has gone before. So take off your clothes and let’s get down to business.”

“Does being man enough mean you got an operation?” she asked.

“What?”

“You know, a penis enlargement. Your six inches was never enough for me.”

He should have known she’d never change. “No, but I did read the book ‘How to Please a Woman Every Time.’”

“Reading a book isn’t good enough. You’ll have to grow an inch or two before you’ll ever satisfy me.”

“Well, the book says six inches is more than enough. It’s you that has the problem, not me.”

“How can that be?”

“You’ve had kids. Your vagina got stretched, so you need to exercise to tighten up.”

She swung her right fist at his face. Joe ducked and she hit the wall.

“Calm down. All you need to do is wear some smart balls a few hours a day.”

“Smart balls? Any balls I’ve ever met are as dumb as the men who own them.”

“It’s a brand name, dummy. They’re weighted balls you insert and walk around with them inside you all day. Every step you take exercises your Kegel muscles and before you know it, you’ll be tighter than you’ve ever been.”

“I wouldn’t wear something inside me all day.”

“Then you can use a vagina barbell to do your exercises, or weighted cones. Why, there’s even a vagina-tightening cream you could use.” Joe handed her a package containing every Kegel exerciser and cream he could get his hands on. “Find something you can use in there. I’ll be back in a month and a day to feel the results.”

The time went by swiftly. Joe returned and knocked on her door. His wife answered with a frown on her face. “I can’t let you in, I’ve been using the tightening cream, and now you’re much too big.”

Joe barged into the room and saw his ex-wife’s girlfriend’s face puckered up like she had been sucking on lemons. That’s when Joe discovered what she really liked, and he knew he could never please his ex-wife because he was a man.

#194 In My Bed

 

#194 In My Bed

It’s always the same on Saturday night. I rush home from work, shower, shave, and do everything I can to look and smell good because this is the one night of the week I get a chance to bring a beauty home with me.

When I’m ready, I stroll down to the club where the beer is only two bucks and the music is free. It’s not that I’m cheap – it’s just the fact I only earn $7 an hour working at 7-11 and even two bucks is almost too much for me. I drink enough to get a buzz so the girls will look better than they really do.

The women that come to this club are usually as poor as me and live a tough life. On this Saturday night, the one I see and want at first sight can’t be classified like that. She wears fine clothes and shoes that cost more than I make in a week. Her long hair is professionally fixed and her tan couldn’t have come out of a bottle.

I do my best macho walk, stride to her side, and try my fetching words, “Say, babe. How’s it going?”

“Better now that I have a man willing to dance.”

“Sorry babe, I don’t dance.”

Her eyes travel over me and I feel her calculating

how much my outfit cost. I think she’s a hopeless cause, but to my surprise, she takes me by the hand and says, “Dance, dance, dance. Music dictates how you move. Watch me and learn.”

I watch and her body flows like a raging river smashing over rapids, undulating around curves; her hands move in the air as if they’re water gracefully flying over unmovable rocks.

I try to boogie, but my feet move like a wheelbarrow with a flat tire. My legs won’t roll. My body jerks. It’s incapable of maintaining rhythm or beat. My waving arms look like limp spaghetti. I try to emulate her and shake my hips but I look like a waddling duck.

“Great,” she says, “I knew you could dance.”

I’m melting from shame and seeping through the cracks in the dance floor. I hope no one I know ever sees me pretending I can dance.

The things I’m willing to do for a little love are beyond my comprehension. Why do I let her make a fool of me?

I’m obsessed by desire and eager to do dreadful stuff to pilfer this rhythmic woman’s heart and see her graceful dancing in my bed. I drink more beer and dance some more. She comes home with me. Sunday morning, I roll over to see a sight that brings a shudder and a gasp. Something terrible must have happened to that beautiful girl.

My eyes go up and down her naked body and see her breasts and belly are wrinkled like a roadmap, stretched so bad that her skin will never be smooth again.

Her eyes blink open and she smiles at me until she sees the look on my face. Then she follows my eyes up and down her skin.

“Were you in a fire and needed skin grafts?”

A grimace replaces her smile. “Five accidents.”

“What happened?”

“I had five kids.”

“I’ve got a bottle of Jim Beam under the bed. Let’s drink and forget all those things.”

Before long, all those wrinkles are erased and she becomes the beauty I first saw last night. I thank God for alcohol, because without it, I’d have to see what life is really all about.

 

 

#193 It Wasn’t My Fault

 

#193   It Wasn’t My Fault

I’m embarrassed to tell the truth about how I never treasured the natural things in life. Sunrise didn’t mean beauty to me; it meant it was light enough to find a crime to commit. Should I go on so anyone can read about my instinctive perceptions about my worthless life and the measures I took that I shouldn’t have? Fate should never have let me exist, but it did, and so I’m still here.

I write to tell everyone why I did what I did.

Poverty is only a word and usually means financially poor. But where I grew up, it wasn’t only a lack of money that impoverished my neighbours; a demon intervened who has destroyed many souls since the beginning of time. How different life would have been if that fiend had never lived.   What little money the working men of my neighbourhood earned was spent on alcohol, and any money I stole soon found its way to those who sold it. Stupid, I know, but when existence is a chore and there’s no bright spot in the world, no relief from physical or emotional pain, a bottle of booze is the only respite. Though a demon in disguise, booze appears as an angel to those in need. It erases hunger, memories,   and

any dreams one may have. It makes crimes easier to commit and allows a man to justify why he beats his wife or kids.

“I was drunk,” was a refrain I often heard a man say when asked why he had done some foul deed.

I robbed a bank and when I got caught, I told the judge, “I was drunk.” I expected him to understand that it wasn’t my fault that the demon made me do it. I believed all men knew that what we did while under the influence was forgivable.

Evidently, the judge didn’t,  and he gave me five years in jail. Locked away in a dungeon built in 1844, I wanted my personal demon to help me through my years of imprisonment, but I was deprived of alcohol. I had to make a deal with the devil and I acquired a more powerful demon, one I’d not only steal for but was willing to do anything in order to keep it masking all my hurts and worries. When released from prison, my new demon accompanied me. I robbed my mother the first day I was out. The demon told me to, and if I wanted to keep him with me, I had to do what he said. Next thing he told me was to kill a man,   so I’d be able to take what he had. If I did that, the demon assured me that I’d have enough money to keep all my worries away. I got arrested,  and I told the judge, “I was high on heroin; it wasn’t really me that killed that boy.” He didn’t understand and sentenced me to death by lethal injection.

Back in a dungeon, I suffered for weeks before the devil left me alone.

 

I had to live with my conscience and I saw all the wrong I had done. Was I sorry? No  because I didn’t blame myself for not knowing there was a better world. Am I scared to die? Will I go to hell? If I do, will I meet my demons there and enjoy eternity by living in an altered state where everything wrong is right?

The time has come and the Catholic priest wants to hear my confession. I say, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

He made the sign of the cross. “Tell me your sins.”

“I trusted the judge to understand that it wasn’t me who committed any crimes. It was the demon within.”

“But we’re responsible for our actions,” the priest said and handed me some beads.

“What about our so-called free will? If I’m forced to do something by a demon, isn’t it his fault and not mine?”

“We can’t blame another for our actions. You accepted the demon’s ideas of your own free will.”

As he spoke, I noticed the priest looked so much like me; he could have been my brother. “You do believe you’ll go to heaven when you die, don’t you, Father?” I walked to the sink in my cell where I kept the shiv I had made from a piece

of broomstick I managed to steal from a utility cart while trustees cleaned my tier.

“If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have become a priest.”

I looked up and down the tier and there were no guards in sight. “As you believe this, if someone takes your life, they’ll be doing you a favor by sending you to your reward early. Am I right?”

He attempted to answer but couldn’t after I stuck my broomstick knife into his Adam’s apple.

All he did was bleed and gurgle. I wrapped a towel around his neck to absorb his blood while I undressed him and then put on his cassock. A perfect fit. I put him in my bed facing the wall, covered him with a blanket and called for the guard.

He took me to the warden’s office. The warden stared at me for a minute. I worried he recognized me, but he said, “Time is near, Padre.”

I wasn’t sure how I’d get out the gate  until I got an idea. “Will you walk with me while I retrieve what I need for the last rites from my car?” Together we walked through the gate and I followed him to the priest’s car.

My demon was dancing with joy. Soon heroin would have me floating as high as could be.

“Warden, I want you to know my demon made me do this.”

I stuck my wooden knife into his throat, took his money and his car to go get some dope. You understand that it wasn’t my fault, don’t you?

 

#192 Reprisal

#192 Reprisal

I wanted to get rid of my wife and not give her a dime. I wracked my brain, did a little research, and found an easy solution.  In 1960, I only had to say she was insane and they accepted my word. Two men wearing white jackets came to take her away. Her piercing shrieks and valiant struggles were wasted on them. They wrapped her in a canvas jacket and injected drugs that paralyzed her brain.

While locked up, she tried to fight back, her world filled with fantasies of freedom.  “I don’t belong here,” she’d often scream. “I don’t belong in a place where others see their world in figurative form.”

Protesting to those in charge caused her to lose part of her brain by being stuck through her eye with a thin lobotomy needle. That taught her to obey. Many years later the government discovered a drug and declared they could open all the doors of asylums across the land. They sent all the inmates out. Some had been institutionalized their entire lives and now they had to face the unsympathetic world and fend for themselves.

Many ended up standing on a corner, shunned by most but preyed upon by others who saw their vacant looks. Before they let her out, my conscience was clear.

Out of sight, out of mind was true for me. But when I began to see those helpless people mingling on street corners in almost every city I went to, I began to think. My wife didn’t know what to do or where to go. I no longer know what she looks like, yet from almost every bag lady I pass in most cities, I see her with her vacant, lobotomized eyes staring at me. I began to think that maybe what I did wasn’t so easy after all.

If only the asylums hadn’t dumped those in need on city streets, I would still think what I did was an easy thing to do.

 

 

#191 No Movies Today

#191 No Movies Today

 

Joe asks Donna to go to the movies. She says, “I’m too tired to go, Joe.”

But he finds out she isn’t too tired to go to see another man. Joe wants to say that’s all right, she has her reasons, but deep inside, he can’t ignore the truth. Anyone can see her priorities are skewed away from him.

Joe overlooks this slight for a while to keep their relationship smooth, but one day he decides to act like the man he is supposed to be. He says, “This shit doesn’t fly. I’m not whipped enough to ignore this deceit. Double dealing is not allowed to become part of my life.”

Joe feels a terrible loss and thinks there’s nothing to do but sing the blues. How she broke his heart, done him wrong, how his sun no longer shines, his innards are all tied in knots and how music is the only sound that’ll penetrate his blues. Colors become muted and no longer speak.

Beautiful imagery that used to fill his days is now just dreary black and white sketches of reality.

She doesn’t know better, he thinks. She only did what’s natural for her, but if Joe wants to say, “I’m a man,” he knows he’s got to do what a man should do when a woman acts like that. Joe doesn’t know much about love, but he did know it’s supposed to be a beautiful thing, not a farce that leaves his heart full of pain. He doesn’t want to get his gun like so many others do, or slap her face to let her know he is the only one for her.

He sings, “I’m leaving you cold for things you’ve done. When I’m gone you’ll realize I didn’t know much about love and it just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

His train of thought chugs in circles until Joe realizes that his songs sound like a crow choking on an ear of corn. He drinks all day until words no longer dribble from his mouth.

He buys some booze to go and drinks it all before he sits down to write fume-induced words that are much better than the ones he sang. Now he can put his feelings into words and he tells Donna how she done him wrong:

Lord have mercy on your soul for what you’ve done to me. I’ve been working as hard as a Smoky Mountain bee to earn the dough to take you to the show. I have to admit, I’m pained and grieved that you didn’t think of me before doing that deed and not going out with me.

Now I shudder when I think of you. My flesh crawls and I recoil at the thought of your unfaithful touch. I know in the end you’ll be yearning for me, but my dislike and distaste for what you did will reinforce my unbearable grief. Even though I’ve quit singing the blues, I’ll continue to write to inform the world how you’ve done me wrong. But best of all is the fact that when I go to the movie show, I enjoy the movie more by myself than I ever did with you. My ship has sailed away and you can no longer climb aboard. I’m never coming back. If my ship should sink, my words will keep me afloat better than any life jacket ever would. I pour myself a drink and toast the harvest moon

for letting me enjoy life more by myself than I could ever have with you.

 

 

#190—Words

 

#190—Words

 

A humongous black cloud barreled toward us as I stood on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. “What the heck is that?” I asked a park ranger standing nearby.

“Imported California air,” he said. “The easterly winds blow it this way every day. Heck, it used to be that we could see over two hundred miles west from this very spot, but nowadays, we’re lucky to see fifty.”

I took out the aspirin tin I always carried for headaches I get from pollution. I had several Cefadroxil pills in the container from when I had pneumonia last winter. I swallowed two aspirins and I put the tin back in my pocket, the dirty air enveloped me. My brain ached with a hard-squeezing pain. Words of a strange language filled my head. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, I was alone. I saw no Japanese tourists, nor any guardrails, or roads. I remembered the cloud and headache. Maybe I blacked out and someone took me to a remote area and abandoned me, or I had fallen to sleep and walked to a deserted part of the canyon. Without roads, guard rails and trash cans, the place looked as though no one had been here in a hundred years.

That’s it. This is some kind of joke. Any minute now somebody will jump out and tell me I’m on camera. I pulled my shoulders back, so I’d look my best when they aired the film on television. I heard a noise in the woods behind me. Must be the cameraman sneaking up on me. I spun around to surprise him, but I was the one surprised when I saw an Indian with his tomahawk raised in the air above my head. Instinctively I kicked him in his deer hide breechcloth. He dropped the weapon and grabbed his crotch, he doubled over in pain. I dove for the tomahawk and had it in my hand when he straightened up and came towards me swung it in a wide ark, hit him in the shin heard the bone crack. I

He fell to the ground and rolled in pain clutching his leg.

I closed my eyes hoping this was a dream. I opened them and two more Indians came towards me. I got into a fighting stance, but they raised their hands in peace signs. I returned one as they came close and spoke in a language I understood.

“He was our medicine man,” one said pointing to the Indian howling in pain.

“Was?” I said.

The other Indian drew his knife and plunged it into the chest of the one with the broken leg. “He disobeyed our chief. They saw you step from a cloud of smoke that filled the chief’s teepee. He,” the Indian pointed to the dead one, “wanted you dead so you couldn’t use your powers to become our medicine man. Come, the chief’s son is ill.” Birds began to peck bits of flesh from the dead Indian.

My head spun. Where was I? How did I get here?

How could I help the chief’s son? They took me to a camp where seven teepees covered with buffalo hides stood. Squaws were stacking wood around a pole stuck in the ground. I figured that’s where I’d be burned if I didn’t do my job as the new medicine man.

Inside a teepee, a boy about six months old lay on a bear fur. A man wearing a long headdress silently watched as I approached.

“This is our chief, Chikapanagi,” one of my escorts said. He remained silent waiting for me to do something. I did the only thing I knew. I picked the baby up and rocked him in my arms. He was hot as could be. I set him back on the fur, took off my shirt, soaked it in a skin full of water hanging by the door and wrapped it around the baby. I knew this would help bring his fever down.

The babies struggle to breathe and its deep coughing reminded me of when I had pneumonia. His symptoms were the same as mine had been. I picked up a small gourd next to a buckskin bag filled with water.

I assumed they used the gourd to drink from. I crushed one aspirin and one Cefadroxil pill, filled the gourd with water and mixed the powdered pills into it, and then fed it to the baby in tiny sips. He cried, coughed, and made ugly faces with every sip. I rocked him for a few hours, slowly I felt him cooling down. I re-wet my shirt, covered him with it.

The Indian with the headdress smiled because his son

was getting better. He handed me a wampum belt. When I took it in my hand smoke filled the tent.

The park ranger stood over me. “Are you all right?”

“What happened? Where was I? How long was I gone?”

“A strange cloud of smog engulfed us. When It blew away, I saw you lying on the ground. You couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few minutes.”

I felt a chill. My shirt was gone. When I raised my hand to cover my chest it held the wampum belt.

 

#189 Sugar and Spice

#189 Sugar & Spice

When I was a boy, the descriptions of little girls as made of sugar and spice seemed so true. But, lo and behold, they grew and transformed from sugar to salt and from spice to spite.

Their lovely baby giggles turned to voices of shrews that cut as deep as any knife. It shows that they forget their mother’s sacrifices and think only of themselves. A reverse metamorphosis has turned these flittering butterflies into caterpillars with more faults than legs.

I saw them change from sweet giggling girls to acidic women spewing cutting words that would put any man to shame. It’s no wonder I drink all night long. I’ve got nothing to lose because all I’ve got is the blues. Everything I do is wrong and will never be right.

I’m always in the mood for the blues, and when a woman sings them, I intently listen. It makes me feel good to know some of them can feel too. Most women I’ve met have turned so damn cold they make my refrigerator seem warm. Icebergs are what I see when I walk down Michigan Avenue, and they’re wearing furs that’ll never warm the ice in their cold, cold eyes that look at me with disgust because I’m a man. A man without the means to buy them some ice – the kind that’ll never melt when they string those diamonds around their frozen necks.

If a woman like that blows into my ear, she would chill my very soul and cause body parts to shrivel from her Arctic breath. Is it any wonder I’ve never loved? If I did, would the woman of my choice ever have her temperature rise and maybe melt her cold heart or her chilly thoughts?

When I dream of being in love, it’s in a warm and sunny place where the women have never seen ice and don’t even know how to be cold. So I think global warming is a good thing. Soon all those frigid hearts will have to melt and when any woman looks at me she’ll see me for what I am, a misogamist in search of an unattainable dream, because woman are made of spite and ice, not sugar and spice.

(No title)

#189 Sugar and Spice

When I was a boy, the descriptions of little girls as made of sugar and spice seemed so true. But, lo and behold, they grew and transformed from sugar to salt and from spice to spite.

Their lovely baby giggles turned to voices of shrews that cut as deep as any knife. It shows that they forget their mother’s sacrifices and think only of themselves. A reverse metamorphosis has turned these flittering butterflies into caterpillars with more faults than legs.

I saw them change from sweet giggling girls to acidic women spewing cutting words that would put any man to shame. It’s no wonder I drink all night long. I’ve got nothing to lose  because all I’ve got is the blues. Everything I do is wrong and will never be right.

I’m always in the mood for the blues, and when a woman sings them, I intently listen. It makes me feel good to know some of them can feel too. Most women I’ve met have turned so damn cold they make my refrigerator seem warm. Icebergs are what I see when I walk down Michigan Avenue, and they’re wearing furs that’ll never warm the ice in their cold, cold eyes that look at me with disgust because I’m a man. A man without the means to buy them some ice – the kind that’ll never melt when they string those diamonds around their frozen necks.

If a woman like that blows into my ear, she would chill my very soul and cause body parts to shrivel from her Arctic breath. Is it any wonder I’ve never loved? If I did, would the woman of my choice ever have her temperature rise and maybe melt her cold heart or her chilly thoughts?

When I dream of being in love, it’s in a warm and sunny place where the women have never seen ice and don’t even know how to be cold. So I think global warming is a good thing. Soon all those frigid hearts will have to melt and when any woman looks at me she’ll see me for what I am, a misogamist in search of an unattainable dream, because woman are made of spite and ice, not sugar and spice.#189 Sugar & Spice