Incoming illuminatory discourse on one of my darker sides.

Today I managed to peel myself away from my brilliant Final Fantasy 7 session in order to go out and change the world for the better. Basically the mother of the Minister of the Interior prevailed upon me to serve my fellow man and help save the world and the misguided people in it. She bribed me with speedier access to heaven and all the feminine flesh I can stand when I get there (sounds like I’m selling my soul). I’ve been considering volunteering for quite awhile now and after several days of self analysis I have determined a series of reasons why I am ready to be a volunteer. My motives, however, are purely selfish, though valid, in my opinion. For this reason I wish to illustrate them.

As an economist it is habitual to proceed in any analysis by spelling out some basic assumptions. Firstly let us assume for the moment that I am a decent human being. I know I’m not really really good. But on the other hand I am pure and innocent compared to most of the filthy people in existence. Let us assume that there also exists category of goodness above mine which consists of all the people who are motivated by good things and a genuine desire to help their fellow man and woman.

Righto. Thus as a good person I am endowed with basic morality. In my case maybe a bit more than most, but lets face it, I am a spoiled brat who grew up in the asshole of the world, living in lush luxury whilst people around me were starving. I have seen screwed up shit and been ashamed of myself for not doing my part. However interestingly enough my volunteering has very little to do with going out and paying my dues to society as I am intimidated by disadvantaged people. I get frustrated with the mentally retarded and elderly human beings. In short, working for these people directly is a bad choice for me since, although rewarding, I’m more likely to throw my arms in the air and say screw it. Furthermore I am of the opinion that if I did go out there with the intention of actually changing something for the better, I’d want to do it all out, hardcore, and be proud of myself rather than doing a half assed job aboot it. Hence the reason of saving humanity is no longer a valid one in my case so well lets drop that.

I think that at the end of the day what really drives me is the amount of unproductive time I have on my hands, and the desire to fill it with justifiable quality activities. As a relatively unemployed youth, on a three month vacation, I need to justify my existence by doing things. Too much empty time of my hands makes me depressed. For the summer I have lined up, a very very very part-time job at the Concordia Economics Department, and a Calculus 3 course at McGill. I need to do other things and fast because I'm aboot to finish Final Fantasy 7 and it’s not even July yet.

Second reason. I, as well as the vast majority of the human population my age, am in search of a life mate, girlfriend, companion, sex buddy, whatever they call it, and I find myself in a static situation where I am not meeting new people except though friends of friends of friends etc…. Its sucks, it’s real. Solution? Activities which require me to interact with people. Volunteering is a particularly good option in my case because most of the people who volunteer are female (Don’t laugh. I read statistics on the subject).

Third reason. I get along well with the Minister’s mother, and if ever I get bored I know I can always find entertainment in her words rather than sitting at home wondering which video game to play next. Plus if it sucks, I quit. I’m not being paid. I have no obligations except for moral ones.

Fourth reason. It’s a good cause.

Hence on Tuesday I will be training as a counselor in charge of helping volunteers find the kind of volunteering they want to do. The organization I’ll be helping out places people in over 700 different organizations that need volunteers. Since I’m nervous around the poor, elderly, etc… I don’t have to work with them directly, but I can help them out indirectly. Plus most of the people I’m likely to talk to will be friendly human beings with good intentions.

I promise to keep you guys posted on the development of this, one of my strangest plans in life.

Save the whales. Eat Snacky Smores.

Welcome back me. It’s good to be back. Ahh yes. As anticipated the trip to Northern Quebec turned out to be quite an episode of bizarre occurrences. Once again against all odds I have survived. I have been face to face with lions in Zimbabwe, I have touched coral in a cave in Fiji, I have walked the streets of the world largest cities, I have faked a twitch whilst a Mexican tourist was trying to catch a whale with his camera. Furthermore I am convinced that I have managed to achieve some small measure of enlightenment which I did not yet possess before my departure. I have been. I have lived. I have learned. Hai speke da henglish very well.

These past few days have taught me some fundamental truths. Firstly, mutant mosquitoes from Northern Quebec can survive in close to zero temperature weather. I’m talking Centigrade, although I wouldn’t be too surprised if the Fahrenheit rule worked as well. Secondly, I dislike defecations in areas where I can’t sit down and relax. A well prepared crap is a relieving, relaxing, and enjoyable experience, and I don’t care what you think you think, it’s bloody true, tabernac! Thirdly, if ever you find yourself in desperate desperate need, ask your friendly fireman. He will help you. Fourthly, a man’s patience is measured by a screaming baby issuing blood curling cries the likes of which make me repent all those peeled baby jokes I used to tell as a child… well almost.

Our trek took us to the villages of La Baie de la St. Catherine and Tadousac. They might as well be the same hamlet if not for the 500 yard wide river running through them, but as usual I digress. Tadousac is charming, small. The architecture old fashioned, painted with bright colors. The accent …. rustique, the people friendly, although there was a high density of tourists. La Baie de la St. Catherine is well, not much. In any case there are whales and everyone loves whales. It is a very humbling feeling to come across a 20 foot long creature. Males say size doesn’t matter. I say it does when you are faced with a living animal larger than you by umm say 12 times. I have achieved some small sense of humility. I doubt my friends will notice.

The camping spot was nice, empty, and infested with annoying flying creatures causing me to soak my clothes in repellent every 3 hours in order to keep myself unspoiled. The food was mostly basic in nature with a penchant for the woodsy flavor and entirely too much ash for my poor poor stomach to handle. I slept on an air mattress. Consensus… I am a city boy.

So after 5 days of abstinence from a shower, combined with heavily recycled clothing and Eau de la Antimoustique, I now know what it feels like to be a hippie. I don’t think I mastered the friendly stoner attitude though. In any case the shower I took last night, after my return, was on the verge of orgasmic. I am purged of my sins. I am pure again. God bless plumbing… I am a city boy.

But seriously. Tadousac is a cool town, and it’s too bad we didn’t have extra time to go deeper into the asshole of Quebec, however I look forward to that epic journey sometime in the future. Whales are kickass, incomprehensible Quebecer is charming and challenging to comprehend, water is awesome, rain is soothing, sun is Zen, wind is cool. Reminded me of Scotland.

And so I will close this somewhat dubious discourse with an enlightening quote from the Minister of Culture, who as Minister of Culture, is charged with the education and culturalization of our youth, “To all the Valkyries with tight twats awaiting me in the Halls of Valhalla.” Booyah.

For some reason these days I haven’t been in the mood to write much. It’s very frustrating when you have an online journal, but you start becoming afraid to post stuff about other people who might potentially be reading the blog. For the record I’m not referring to the regulars, but there is a lot of stuff I’ve wanted to rant about concerning various people who although have not yet run into this site, I still fear. Funny how that is. Private journals suck cause nobody reads em. Public journals limit what you can let out. Someone give me a human punching bag for a few days.

At this stage in my life I find myself poised for an unanticipated camping trip into the wilderness of Gaspesie. This trip excites me even though I’m not much of an outdoors person. It’s a way out of Montreal with people I love although I’m certain that the baby factor will prove to be a true test of my patience. In any case I’m looking forward to just sitting back and losing myself someplace for a few hours. Should be good, I think I deserve it for no reason in particular.

In retrospect, I feel melancholy this day, but due to causes which I shan’t divulge for the same reason stated above. If anything it prevents me from constantly bitching. I don’t like myself when I complain. There was a time when I used to withdraw myself into my depressions. There was a time when I used to think that it was the only beautiful thing about me. I was really a misguided romantic as a child. I’d like to think that I’ve evolved since then, but somehow I feel that this aspect of me will always be a part of who I am. In some ways this angers me for I do not like to be perpetually depressed when I am lonely. On the other hand I am somewhat proud of the adjective. However, I’m not a basket case and at the end of the day it’s reliving not to be going in that direction. Ultra romanticism is a destructive attribute to possess. It leads to manic depression and a greater collapse of oneself onto oneself. Fortunately I’ll never reach that stage due to my dependence on other human beings, more specifically my friends.

I feel something strong coming on. It’s been building for several months now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something in me is about to change. For some reason I am convinced that I am on the verge of some fundamental realization or truth which is going to eliminated one of my major problems permanently. I want it to happen, but I don’t know how or what to expect. I hope it will be positive. I am frustrated.

I want to scream as loud as I can. I want to cry so hard it hurts, and not care about who or what can hear me. I want to violently expel all the stress, hatred, sadness, all that is painful within me. I want it to hurt. I want to crawl out of a physically exhausting ordeal and sleep. I want to hurt someone. I’m afraid of myself.

The bus was dark, generic, blue. The seats were covered in badly written messages and designs which one could spend hours trying to figure out where they began and ended. The bus was supposed to leave at nine minutes past the first hour in the morning, but as usual it waited a little bit for the drunk people to get on. It was the last bus. The drunkards were always late. He just sat in his chair sideways with his arms leaning on the seats in front and behind him. It was a comfortable position and one which was sufficiently “cool” looking to satisfy his own sense of style. He was listening to music. He was tapping his feet to the beat trying to compete with the drummer who played in the song. He felt cool. He basked in the glory of his coolness. He wore a panama hat. He was a bit drunk.

In the final seconds before the bus left she came on and eye contact was made. It was quickly broken and her expression, which was that of nothing, didn’t change. She sat down diagonally from him and pulled out some music playing device. As the bus began to pull out she began to rock her feet slightly to the beat. And then she made eye contact with him. He tried to hold it and failed. He looked away. And then his mind began to race.

“Good night?” she would ask.
“Not too bad justa couple of drinks with some friends,” he’d reply. “You?”
“Same here. A night out with the girls which got no where as usual.”
“Yup I know that one.”

He lifted his head and yawned coolfully and threw her another glance. She was trying to fall asleep, leaning her head on the hard plastic divider by the door. The bumping of the bus made it impossible. He stared for awhile hoping to catch another eye contact; see if he could hold it a bit longer this time.

She would open her eyes, meet his gaze, and say, “So, what do you do with your life?”
“Well right now I’m a student.”
“So you aren’t working?”
“Nope.”
“So why are you going home so early?”
“Last bus, and the evening wasn’t interesting enough for me to want to pay myself a cab ride home.”
“I see.” She would pause dramatically and assume an expression of pondering, “I have the apartment to myself tonight. Wanna come up for a few drinks?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“Ohh, I know you better than you think.”

She gave up on sleeping on the bus and just looked ahead as if she was thinking about something. He continued to artfully tap his feet to the music trying damn hard to figure out how the drummer made those sounds with only two hands and one foot. The bus made a left turn and began its trek through West Mount. The houses were nice, the exterior designing already laid out for the warmer months. But the yellow light piercing the obscurity gave the flowers a weird visual effect. He was drunk. He thought he liked it. The traffic lights flashed red as usual for this time of night. The bus driver treated them like stop signs, coming to unnecessary complete stops at each one. A sense of urgency assumed itself in him and he started hoping the bus driver would hurry up a bit. Once again he turned to her in attempt to unravel her secrets.

“So where do you live?” He would ask.
“Down Cote St. Luc.”
“Past the Ultramar?”
“Yes about 10 minutes on the bus past that.”
“Right, so I’ll have to cab it home or walk a half hour from your place.”
“We’ll see,” She’d say with a smile, and a feeling of excitement and anticipation filled him.

The bus turned down the road into the beginnings of NDG. Soon he would be coming up to his stop. The ride downhill was faster than the part through West Mount and the Bus driver made no attempts to slow down. Most of them took this part of the trip like this.

“So you coming with me?” She’d ask.
“Yes.”

He pushes the button requesting a stop. Exits the bus and walks across the street. The air is cool but not cold, the lighting dim and mysterious. He tilts his panama hat forward and assumes a Humphrey Bogart look. He walks slowly but deliberately. He is listening to music. He is walking to the beat. He allows the music to fill him. He smiles. He is the man. No woman can resist him. He is cool.

Simple random garbage falls off the wall of eternity into a puddle of tarmac on the floor. Cabbage is flung from pot to pot until it stops spinning upon itself. Stoning people seems like mush in the darkness. There are things which come to those who believe in the everlasting wanton ecstasy which is that which we call the death of class. Sometimes I wonder on the matters which penetrate my cavity and ponder on the decisions we make. I may never know truth, but I have felt the sweet and sour feeling of the scratching of a smooth armpit, and that may just be the answer to all the questions. In the end of the inevitable lies the items which make one’s life seem trivial. Sometimes in the gloom I sense a vast protrusion emanating light in the corridors of hatred. And in the lack of space I find a certain twisted sense of luck. But then, I’d wanted better than to crawl on upon the backs of others. We may never know. Oh well.

The summer evening was slowly settling down with an aura of fake fireflies against the cloudy sky. It was as if God had come down and setup flashy plastic neon strips in the atmosphere the likes of which any Las Vegas casino would envy. Neon pink and purple, light permeating the panoramic scene. In short it was magnificent.

In the distance a smoke stack slowly whittled its way into the heavens, penetrating the atmosphere, adding to the purple clouds, augmenting the synthetic odor which hung in the air. The evening was humid, and the earth sighed heavily as acid droplets were painfully inhaled. In the end the smoke might win, but only to its own demise. That is the ultimate reality. What goes up must come down. What begins must end. Only the process was infinite.

The vegetation around thrived on the dirty dampness and unnatural illumination. Soon the temperature would drop and the fungus would awaken, taking in the chill of the evening. They had long ago learned the secret of using the radiation in the ground to build large mushrooms which thrived and maintained them. Even the concrete with all its chemicals and imperfections had become useful. There was no waste for the waste was organic, and the organic thrived.

In the distance a single green weed tried desperately to cling to the life which stifled its existence. It choked and wheezed, feeling the last of its moments spent on survival. In one final dramatic breath the plant expired, leaving behind only small dry seeds at its feet. They too would suffer a similar fate. This sort of thing happened a lot these days. But the vegetation had grown immune to this kind of suffering. It was all part of evolution, and evolution favored them. Their time had come.

Good evening and salutations.

I’m not usually a very political kinda guy nor do I have any strong political opinions more complex than, “I hate Bush.” But allow me for once to rant about the fuss around Regan. Normally I wouldn’t give two shits about this but I’m finding myself back in the States for a change, and so, for a short time I find it justifiable to rant about US matters… (Not that I ever say or know anything about Canadian politics or political history for that matter). But I digress (again).

When I was born Carter was in power, and so by the time I finally came into consciousness the Carter administration, and its mistakes were over and done with. My early years were spent under the era of Regan and all the foreign policy and economics that went with it. Now I don’t claim to know anything about politics, but from what I remember Regan built lots of nukes, and built one of the largest deficits the US has ever known. They called it Reganomics, something I happen to know a thing or two about given my chosen path in life. Reganomics used a principle known as the Laffer Curve. Basically the idea is that you cut taxes, therefore people spend more, therefore tax revenues increase. Apparently under certain circumstances this increase can more than offset the loss achieved by tax cuts. Hence Regan cut taxes hoping to increase revenues, and become more popular. He also spent trillions on the military. Increase in government spending plus increase in government borrowing to pay off the tax cuts, equals huge deficit (A bit like what Bush is doing by the way). After he finished he was an item of humor. People constantly making fun of his Alzheimer’s. All in the spirit of good fun of course. But the fact of the matter is that it took several years to undo the damage which the Regan administration did to the US economy. I would also tend to argue that the number of nukes we had back then was and is still dangerous. But OK we got out of it fine and after all he didn’t destroy the country. He was an uneducated actor who managed to rally the people around him thanks to his charisma and popularity in the movies. Regan was above all an actor.

So now he is dead and the country is covered in flags flying half mast for days (And let me tell you there are ****loads of US flags flying around here). He gets a state funeral the likes of which we haven’t seen since JFK who, I might add, died while still in office. The country is taking a holiday tomorrow, Friday, in memory of him. And now they are talking about slapping his face on the ten dollar bill. Sounds rather comical to me. What I don’t understand is why. Perhaps the US government is trying to bring the American people into a sense of unity by using this man’s death as an excuse. He wasn’t a hero. Perhaps the Republicans are trying to use it as a means of gaining votes? Regan was a Republican. Something doesn’t ring right to me, and I can’t get anyone to give me a satisfactory answer. I found out about Regan passing away on Sunday morning. My reaction was an, “Ohh… That’s too bad.” My reaction is probably not representative given my loose affiliation with the US over the past ten years, but seriously, the US ten dollar bill? I read articles in “The Onion” with titles like “Regan may have been sworn in, doesn’t recall.” It was funny.

Now take a man like Jimmy Carter. OK fair enough he screwed up a couple of times during his administration, but he is still the US’s number one diplomat, and has done countless numbers of things to promote world peace, and save lives. He won a Nobel Peace Prize, and he is still active doing many things for his country. A real patriot. Maybe I’m wrong but somehow I doubt that when he passes away he's going to replace anyone’s face on a bill. In fact, I doubt that they will extend any of the honors they are giving Regan, and in my mind Carter is a much better human being.

Anyways I invite anyone to give me an explanation to illuminate my rather confused reaction to all this hype. I want to stress I’m not angry just confused, so if I’ve offended anyone out there with my potential ignorance, eat me.

After almost exactly one year I find myself once again in front of my father’s old laptop, the same in front of which I typed over 100 pages non-double spaced in the office of the Central Bank of Burkina Faso. The manuscript I produced is dark, and extremely emotional about how much I hated living in Africa, and how badly I wanted to return to Montreal. It makes me think and brings me to several conclusions. Number one, I still hate typing on laptop keyboards. Number two, my father really should get a new computer… I think this one is at least 5 years old. Number three, life has gotten much better since then and I am a better person now, in this instant.

And so I find myself back again in the land of my birth and a significant part of my upbringing. It makes me think of my youth. There is so much similar and so much different. There is a lot of which I detest about the United States, a lot of which I missed. I also get the unique chance to draw certain parallels with Canada, which after just a few short hours here seems completely different. Mind you I’m a downtown Montreal boy now, and here I'm in a hardcore DC suburb. Ironically this place reminds me lots of Brossard, a part of Quebec I’m not very fond of. I look forward to returning to my old neighborhood where I grew up thinking to myself that it is not quite as generic and geometric as Alexandria Virginia. The neighborhood in which I’m currently situated looks to me to have been generated by a computer. Everything is very homogeneous and straight, (even the vegetation). I find this mildly disturbing like the physiological climax in a bad horror movie. But I digress. I am here as a wedding anniversary present from my father to my mother. My mother is very attached to us her children, and so here I am making myself useful. My parents have recently moved into this house which although smaller than that in which we grew up in, is actually cozy despite the copy paste layout of this neighborhood. When we left for Zimbabwe in 1996 most of our belongings were put into storage and have only just recently resurfaced. The place is a mess, remnants of my childhood strewn about the floor. It is a bit macabre from an existentialist perspective. Destiny is an artist.

In a few days I will have some time off to visit with the Field Marshall. I plan on having him take me briefly to my old house and high school so that I can compare and reminisce. I expect the experience to have a minor impact on me, but I am curious to know my reaction. An experiment so to speak. Ideally I’d like to spend some more time here visiting these old emotions, but alas I have not the time nor the flexibility. Perhaps some other time. I’d also like to go back to downtown DC and look at it from my new adult perspective. In my younger days I was quite anti-American, but I think now for reasons which are not valid. I want to re-explore how I feel about this place from a just point of view. After all there is a strong possibility that I will come to live here someday, and I want to make sure I am still interested. And so perhaps I’ll not have time to make all of my judgments but this is fun.

I return to Montreal on Sunday just in time for a game. I look forward to that too.

Travel is illuminating.

It wasn’t his first time in a strip club. He didn’t go very often. Maybe once or twice a year at most. He was with three other guys, but it didn’t matter. He knew he would walk out as empty as he’d come in. Perhaps emptier. But maybe that’s what he needed. He didn’t think about it too hard.

The club was plastic, sleazy, dark. What little illumination was provided by the lights on the stage and behind the bar. The rest of the place was illuminated by a dim oppressive red light. The bouncers dressed in tuxedos were trying to pass off the façade that the place was classier than it actually was. The aura of a gentlemen’s club fit for the anti-gentleman. After about thirty minutes of watching the girls on stage and the standard overpriced beers he’d ordered, he went looking for a dance. He wasn’t aroused. He knew he would walk out empty. He didn’t know what he hoped to fulfil out of it, but he went anyway lulled by a senseless romantic fantasy.

He went next to the private area where lap dances were given, thinking that the prettiest girls would be the ones coming out. For a moment he considered going after the ugliest girl he could find but realized he was just being childish. After a few minutes, he found an attractive woman who had been on stage earlier and asked for a dance.

She was fit, shorter than him, almost petite, but not delicate. Long brown hair, but the color of her eyes was indistinguishable in the red light. She gave him her name and asked his. He answered. It didn’t matter. She led him into a booth walled off by cheap cardboard and a cheesy red shiny curtain. He sat down. She asked him if he knew the rules and he answered yes. He watched her. She was attractive. Swaying her hips seductively, touching herself she began to remove her clothing. And then she asked him where he was from.

“It’s complicated. I’m from lots of places. Mostly the US and France. But I grew up in Africa… And yourself?”
A laugh, “Complicated also. But more or less from Quebec City.”

She grins. She strokes his arms and arches her belly towards his face. Hey belly button is pierced.

“Just curious. How old are you?” he asks. He knows it is an inappropriate question, but then he in an inappropriate place.
“24… How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
She guesses, “I think you look 24.”
“You are the first person to guess right.” She is the first person to guess right. He smiles.

“So what are you doing in Montreal? Studying?” he asks.
“No. I was working in a restaurant, but that didn’t work out so I decided to come to Montreal… I couldn’t find a job here so I started stripping.”
“Did you dance in Quebec?”
“No.”
“How long have you been dancing for?”
“Erotic dancing? Only 6 months but I do jazz and ballet. I want to dance professionally, but good dancing jobs are impossible to find. I once did this show. They paid us 1000 bucks.”
“Well that’s not bad is it? Just one show?”
“Well when you consider the two weeks of practice before the show…”
“Right. That sucks.”

There is a brief pause in the conversation as he touches her skin. It is smooth, but not satisfying. Suddenly he wants to provoke a reaction and test a theory. Assuming a conversational tone he ask, “So. How do you feel about erotic dancing?”
She stops her dance. She is naked except for the g-string, her breasts natural, not large, not small. She is beautiful. Her faces assumes an expression of pondering.
“Erotic dance is ok, but it isn’t what I want to do. I’m looking for a job as a waitress but a good job.”
“Well Montreal has loads of restaurants.”
“Yah but they hire students at minimum wage for that. I’ve been there before I want better.”
“Would you keep dancing if you found a job waiting?”
She replies, “No. I would prefer to not dance if I had another job.” This bothers him. For a moment he feel filthy. He removes his hands from her body.
“But the money is better dancing right? You must make what, 200 bucks a night?”
“Sometimes more depending on how hard I try. Some girls can make over 400 bucks a night if they try hard enough.” He gets the impression she isn’t one of those girls.

She resumes her dance and he settles down again. He is a bit upset, but in a few moments the tension leaves his chest and the urgency departs. He is comfortable again. He lifts his hands and strokes her.

She turns to face him and asks, “So what do you do in Montreal?”
“I study economics at Concordia.”
“How long have you been here?
“5 years now. I did my undergrad at McGill.”
“In economics?”
“Yah.”
“So you are doing a Masters”
“That’s right.”
“And then?”
“Probably a PHD. I don’t wanna leave school yet.”

She continues her dance and presents her back to him. He strokes her legs, her ass. They are firm, muscled.
“You must workout loads to stay this fit.”
She laughs evilly. “Nope. And I eat junk food all the time. Although I need to watch it a bit.” She pinches a firm belly.
“What are you talking about? I know people who’d kill to have a stomach like that.”
“Well I dance.”
“True.”
A pause.
“Did you see my show on stage?
“Yes. It was U2 wasn’t it? With or Without You?”
“I don’t like the music they play in these types of places. But that song makes me feel nice. Feel I can express myself to it.”
“Yah well R&B doesn’t do it for me either.”
“What do you listen to?”
Without hesitation, “Classic rock ‘n roll. Mostly 60s 70s and 80s. I’m not into R&B, hip-hop, that sort of thing.”
“Yah same here. Did you see Aerosmith?”
“No I missed them.”
“I was in the 8th row.”
“Awesome how’d you pull that off?
“I danced for one of the organizers of the show. But then he got all sentimental on me and asked me out.”
“Did he want extra?”
“Extra?”
“I hear stories about people asking strippers for something extra. Apparently all sorts of things can happen.”
“Well maybe. But I don’t do that.”
“How did you feel the first time you did a contact dance?”
“It was fine. Didn’t bother me.” He doesn’t believe her.

Her hips are swaying seductively. She is touching him and he fondles her lightly, more interested in the conversation than the dance. He has no erection. She smiles at him. He smiles back. He isn’t horny, just curious. The experience is surreal. He likes it.

As she turns to face him he notices a crucifix between her breasts.
“Are you religious?”
“Yes. I know that’s a bit of a contradiction…”
He cuts her off, “Whatever, religion is subjective right?”
“That’s what I think. It’s the only necklace I have.”
“But what about the clients. Do people freak out when they see it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I can see some confused religious guy coming in here and freaking out seeing that.”
“Well they are in here to begin with right?” She says this with a hint of steel in her voice. He thinks she’s had this conversation before.
“Sure.”
“Besides. It makes for a good conversation piece.” He knows she’s had this conversation before.

The song comes to an end.
“How much am I up?”
“50 bucks.”
“Ok one more dance then.”

She dances for him, he feels her. Her nipples are hard, her breasts real. She is fit. She is sexy, but he isn’t sexually aroused. He basks in the glory of the moment allowing the sensations to fill him.

The song ends. He gives her 65 bucks and thanks her for the conversation. He gives her two kisses, one on each cheek and goes downstairs.

A masculine roar is uttered loud
And thus the beasts so scared of sound
Started spinning all round
Hearing voice of anger
Fearing wrath of nature
And so they listened to the speech
And so they suffered each to each

And then another roar was made
But sadly much the same
And all the beasts gave in
But seeking it therein
T’was much the same they said
And off they went to bed

And yet another roar was cried
And all the beasts they stopped and sighed
And grumbling turned the other side
And went about their things
For that is what they sing
Forever more without
Any form of doubt

And then another frantic scream
Squealing from the evening gleam
But all the beasts they turned and laughed
T’was just the same as in the past
And so they went about their chores
And when it stopped did they ignore
Continuing on with life
Devoid of all the strife

And then the bawling did it cease
But not a beast was set at peace
For thunder is a common thing
Roaring squealing suffering
And so the mouse suspends his plea
Ignored for all eternity
By all except the wind
Which cradles it within

I wonder what I’ll do tonight. I’ve been on vacation for a month now and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten at home more than once or twice since exams ended. Come to think of it, I didn’t even eat at home that much during exams. Ohh well. Today the Minister of Culture and Mister T are on their “breaks” from their jobs as lab rats. Apparently anal lobotomies aren’t that bad but having blood taken from you 10 times a day is annoying. Anyways the plan is to drink heavily sometime tonight and I never say no to a party. In other news I have decided to consume chicken this evening accompanied by tortellini and pesto. Since I’m actually eating at home for a change I might as well make the most of it and spoil myself. Maryanne is arriving this evening. She is staying two days before heading off to Spain (lucky girl!). I spent all day making things barely livable for my guest. Even cleaned out the empty bedroom which we were using for “storage.” So now all the shit that was on the floor is in the closet. I took a nap. The evening is falling and the moon is almost full. The rain falls hard and fast on the ground. There is a roar of a frustrated thunder in the distance, desperately demanding be listened to.