Today’s entry From The Grave was written approximately two years ago. It is about winter and opportunity:
Looking for attention? Want people on the street to pay you notice? Have a yen for that aura of danger and excitement that drives the girls wild?
While you walk down the streets of the city, bend down to pick up a handful of snow. Pack it into a fine, icy sphere. Keep on walking, whistling innocently to yourself, displaying a thin smile to those nearby.
No one can ignore a happy guy with a snowball.
NOTE:I’d previously posted something I’d actually posted before, a duplicate of a duplicate. I’m lamer than Ken Griffey Jr. at a separated shoulder convention.
Dan suggested that my next From The Grave entry revive a letter I wrote to a particularly horrid former neighbor about five years ago. I’m quite happy to oblige:
Dear Obnoxiously Evil Ex-Upstairs-Neighbor (not her real name):
You may have noticed that we no longer reside in the first floor unit of the building in which you live. You may be confused and frightened by this sudden change, much as a hamster becomes disoriented when his exercise wheel is relocated from one corner of his cage to another.
We have moved, and we will not be returning. This means that the Tammy Wynette songs that you play at riot-control levels will no longer reach our ears. When you yell at your children to “get in [their] fucking room,” we will no longer hear you and wonder if your parenting technique is superior to ours.
Please don’t misunderstand — our memories of you will not be completely negative. Your frequently changing hair color was our own private aurora borealis. We will fondly remember watching you flick cigarette butts from your patio and judging you on style, grouping, and estimated minutes subtracted from your life expectancy.
As a token of the appreciation we have for the unique experience of having lived in your vicinity, please find attached to this letter a piece of furniture that we want you to have. It is a free-standing closet, with one door conveniently ripped off to fit in with your overall decorating motif. You will find it useful for many things — we would suggest it as a possible residential solution following your next inevitable eviction.
Today’s entry from the past was written in July 2000. It is about relationships and betrayal:
I held her head in my hands this morning and whispered, “I forgive you.”
She had made me so angry last night that I couldn’t bear to look at her. The evening was spent in steely silence, as I replayed her betrayal over and over in my mind. She had taken away the one thing I wanted most with no regard to my feelings, and I wanted her to suffer for it.
I went to bed upset, always the wrong thing to do, cringing from her attempts at physical contact. When I awoke this morning to see her warm brown eyes sadly seeking forgiveness, however, I finally realized what an obstinate jerk I was being. She’s family, and she will always be more important than any other thing the world may provide.
I know she’s just a dog, but it was a damn good turkey sandwich.
Since so much of my “work” on the Internet is scattered about all willy-nilly, I have decided to occasionally post some of these past embarassments from time to time on this site. Today’s entry was written in November 2000, back when I still lived in Boston and before Christina Aguilera was viciously attacked by her makeup bag.
While walking through Davis Square today, I tried to recruit members for my army of zombies.
In order to identify myself to potential zombies, I walked with stiff legs and arms thrust out in front of me. I repeated the only zombie word I know — “nnnnnhhhh” — and ambled around the brick plaza in the center of the square. The message was clear: “Zombies, unite around me and we shall crush the living! Their tender brains shall be our sustenance! Nnnnnhhh!”
While I found no willing recruits, I did discover one striking thing: pigeons are scared shitless of zombies.