Discourse with the damned

Toby just called me. It went like this:

Toby: Mouse, I have news for you.
me: I certainly hope so. I haven't heard from you in -weeks-...I thought maybe you were kidnapped by space aliens or something.
Toby: No way, dude, I met a girl.
me: Same thing. Name, rank, and serial number?
Toby: Shut up, asshole. It's not even like that this time. This one's -marriage material-.
me: Marriage material? What, like, she's got a matching set of aprons and pot holders?
Toby: Unlikely. But I feel like she could meet my mom and my mom wouldn't compare her to you.
me: I was thinking about stopping by your mom's while I'm in Florida, by the way. But Tobes...marriage?
Toby: Well, it's time I was thinking about it. I'll be 30 in a matter of months.
me: In a matter of 28 months.

( The rest of the conversation )

The phone rang at 3 am, and whenever the phone rings in the middle of the night I immediately assume the worst. They didn't leave a message and so I'll never know what was going on...maybe it really was the worst.

Each time the bird tries to land the wind gusts and it is picked back up into the air. It flies around the trees a bit in a "I meant for that to happen" sort of way, and then tries again. The wind gusts, and it's launched back out. Eventually it manages to land and, satisfied with its accomplishment, it flies away.

Webbing

Vicky suggested I try Friendster.com to try and help calm my disjointed feelings and all my lost-ness. I looked, but it was far too overwhelming. I don't even know where to begin. But it got me to thinking about old friends:

When we met he was slouched against the wall, felt-penning lyrics to Tom Waits songs on the jukebox. I noticed his height first, the way he had to stoop to bring his arms low enough for easy graffiti access. His hair, flopped over on his forehead, made him look like a little boy and he kept brushing it out of his eyes with his forearm so impatiently that I wanted to go help him with it. So I did. I had never crossed a room for a man in my life before but here I was crossing one because I had attached myself to the innocence of his hair. As I wove my way through the crowd he slid down the wall until he hit the floor, having, I assumed, exhausted all graffitiable space at the top of the jukebox.
“Don’t you think Tom Waits might be the wrong choice for a joint like this?” He looked up at me, startled. I leaned over to read his lyrics and my long brown hair brushed the side of his face.
“Tom Waits is never the wrong choice.”

(no subject)

Several handturkeys into my evening, I notice this:

Stain Advisory: Crayola Original Markers are water-based and contain colorants which may stain.

Sure enough, my fingers have lines on the side that look like seams, as though my left hand just popped fresh out of the mold.