Later, on the way out to eat, she asked, "did you J.O. this afternoon?" I answered, "yes"
06.05.03 - 9:40 pm

In the company of a friend that helped me move into my new apartment, I yelled, half-jokingly, "shut up!", in response to an obnoxious male who stood, yelling, across the street and five buildings down. Nothing came of the advisory, my friend left, a half hour passed and the male continued to yell, "Tim! Tim! Tim! Tim!" In no matter what fashion "Tim" was yelled, the middle of the name given a longer, high-pitched emphasis, hands cupped around the mouth to deepen and intensify the holler, accompanied with the bouncing of a basketball off the side of the second story, barely missing a window, Tim's attention was never seized.

Settling on my second instinct, I faced a lengthy internal debate. For a while, I remained unsure as to whether or not I should offer my piece of mind or let the situation go. He had been calling to Tim for over a half hour. There isn't any possible way he'll stand out there much longer, I supposed. On the other hand, if he's been disrespectful enough to stand outside of an apartment, in the middle of a neighborhood in the middle of the day, and scream for a half hour, what would stop him from continuing to do so without taking into consideration the nerves of those who are close enough to hear?

While I was slightly apprehensive about the decision, I finally decided to talk with him. Previous to approaching him, I had not taken into consideration the possibility of dealing with any degree of physical combat. I ultimately pondered this question when I realized any physical violence I brought to our exchange would certainly mark my tactlessness, as it turned out the obnoxious male was a mere sixteen-years-old.

Upon approaching, I tried to explain the obvious. If you have been yelling for a half hour and I have been able to hear you five houses down, the person to whom you are yelling fifteen feet above you, Tim, would have probably responded by now. Further, his silence might be indicative of his feelings toward a) you or b) your plans.

"Fuck you," was the response of Tim's beckoner, which is probably the retort I would have gone with had I been in his position, talking to some pretentious, neighborhood-newcomer know-it-all. I threatened him the only way I could think of, telling him, "I will call the police," specially dramatic emphasis on "will". He assured me, "my mother works for the police and I called her already. I'm trying to get my brother's attention." I'm glad we both understood each other.

"Stop the yelling", I concluded. He simply told me, "no," to which I just stared at him and gave him a blank smile. Mission accomplished. I showed him.

Upon returning to my apartment, I found my upstairs neighbor smoking a butt in the driveway. "Someone giving you shit?" he asked. I explained to him the dynamics of my and the kids exchange. "Hasn't he heard of a phone?" he asked. We began to joke about this until I moved my car, checked my cellphone to see if I had any messages and had the hair-brained epiphany, it possible the kid doesn't have access to a phone. I walked it down there, let him use it, apologized for acting the way I did, and things were kosher. That is, until I woke up this morning to find my tires slashed and my rear, passenger side window (what a random choice on the part of any vandal) busted out.

Lesson: Never let a neighborhood kid who you have pissed off know what sort of car you drive.

I heard not one of the vandal's actions as, while perpetually waiting for a plentifully breasted rich woman to call and/or approach me, I settled for fucking an impoverished neighbor of moderate bustular proportions. She said she graduated from Colby in 2000 and has been working a waitress position at a dive bar ("they're really, really fun to work for") ever since. Her bed was seventeen inches thick.

"I just got done moving my bed upstairs. Three floors is a bitch. It's seventeen inches thick."

I didn't believe or appreciate the dimensions of the bed until she bought my faux-amazement and asked, "do you want to see it?" Better than the sex, I would settle on fucking her again for another hour of sleep in that bed.

The proprietor of a cart close to mine frantically asked me for help today. My phone was ringing so I put him on hold and I took the call. While he was frantic...

While working at the sock-monkey cart, I helped a fellow cart-worker with what appeared to be a small-scale incident of disastrous proportions. Misled by his exaggerated sense of urgency, I expected his problem would be some sort of bodily harm. I'd find a missing finger, or something of the like. Instead, his wounds ran as shallow as an email account. "How you fix this," he asked, in his Chinese broken-American accent. He showed me the "to:" bar on his email account and displayed the list of addresses that appear on the pull down menu when one clicks on it. "How get rid of these?" He showed me the list of addresses that pulled down. I deleted each of the addresses, covering his electronic tracks. At the time, I didn't think to look at and remember the websites he didn't want his only other employee, his wife, to see.

I understand his desire to cover his preverbal tracks, as his wife is the only other employee at the cart and she uses the computer. Long ago, I used to put effort into covering my tracks until I got lazy and careless. Yesterday I was sprawled on my ex-girlfriend's couch, somewhere between being passed out and watching an E! documentary on the Poltergeist movies as the cable clicked on and off. She walked in, home from the beach, to find me sprawled on the couch next to a half-full jar of peanut-butter and an empty box of gormet chocolate covered pretzels. Instead of running as I had vowed to do that morning, I ate what was left of a box of these glorious pretzels, spreading onto them large globs of JIF chunky peanut butter.

Later, on the way out to eat, she asked, "did you J.O. this afternoon?" I answered, "yes", not knowing whether or not I had actually done so this afternoon. I knew I had preformed the act at least a handful of times in the near-past, so I realized there was no point picking fly-shit out of pepper, as says my father. "I thought so. Sublime Directory was the last website to come up in the address bar when I went to check my email." So I did J.O. this morning. I remembered. I was really restless at some point and I just decided to go for it.

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