"kill your darlings"

Humidity meets humility...


East Coast weather is not my friend.

In other news, something random I started working on. Not sure if I'll add to it or leave well enough alone, but Faulkner would probably have a field day...

Given the choice between staying where I am another moment longer, dealing with the unfathomably uncomfortable departure that no doubt awaits my attempt to escape, or suicide, I've gotta say that shuffling off this mortal coil seems by far the most palatable option at this particular juncture. Unfortunately, I've yet to get my bearings in this godforsaken shrine to Pottery Barn and have had absolutely zero luck in locating any potentially lethal means of dispatching myself—blunt objects, sharp edges, poisonous substances, bathtubs in close proximity to a precariously balanced electrical appliance, all suspiciously MIA—so lingering seems to be the simplest option at this stage of the game.

Path of least resistance...

"Hiya, toots!"

Even if I didn't recognize her voice sight unseen, I'd still know her without looking by the telltale Donald Duck line. I turn to face her, and without missing a beat, she leans in for a kiss. I'm not sure whether to be angry with her for crossing the proverbial line in the sand that is our strictly platonic code of conduct, or pissed at myself for going weak in the knees and closing my eyes.

Fucking schmuck...

I'm at a total loss as she pulls away, breaking out in a beaming smile, but I scramble to salvage the situation. "Eh, having a good time, Dolores?"

She punches me in the shoulder, which doesn't exactly catch me off guard—although I wasn't expecting to get hit quite that hard. "I hate it when you call me that!"

I shrug and resist the urge to rub the spot on my arm that's starting to throb a bit. "Don't see why. If it's good enough for Eddie Valiant—"

"—it should be good enough for me," she finishes my line while rolling her eyes and biting her lower lip. It's a verbal routine we both know forwards and backwards, a move out of our own personal playbook.

But I've never really been a fan of non-contact sports, if you catch my drift.

"Look, Dee—"

"—Thank you!" she cuts in with over-exaggerated relief that I've used her self-appointed nickname.

"Think I might split," I continue. "This just... It isn't my scene, you know?"

"Aww," she pouts. She knows I'm a sucker for that. "But you just got here..."

"Um, I've been here a few hours, actually."

She does a double-take so comical, Chuck Jones would be proud. "Have you??"

I nod in the affirmative.

"Why am I just seeing you now, then?" she demands, to which I choose to reply only with what I hope is a suitably non-committal shrug.

Cool as a cucumber...

Or so I thought. She's standing with her hands on her hips, giving me that look. You know the one. Right eyebrow raised just so above the left, mouth poised somewhere between a smirk and a frown, forehead wrinkled in what could be concentration or consternation?

That look.

I swear, she practices in the mirror when she's home alone. No one should be this good at a look, particularly when the look in question is systematically engineered to give the unshakable suspicion that the person giving it is staring into depths of your soul you hadn't even suspected might exist before.

We both know I'll cave eventually—she always gets the best of me in situations like this, and she bloody well knows it, too—so I decide to cut my losses and just throw in the towel without a struggle. Gotta pick your battles, am I right? "Just kinda been laying low, I guess," I admit. "Playing the proverbial wallflower and all that."

"You're such a goober, man," she snorts, killing her beer.

So much for an easy, relatively painless escape. I glance at my wrist, "Wow, would you look at the time," hoping she's tipsy enough not to notice—

"Dude, you don't wear a watch."

Once again, I've underestimated her day-to-day obsessive-compulsive attention to detail. "Touche," I acknowledge. "But I still really ought to go."

By now, she's made her way to the refrigerator. "Geez, you're such a killjoy," she manages to mutter over the clinking of bottles.

"I just don't fit in with this crowd," I try to explain.

But she's not buying it. Looking me dead in the eye, she cracks open a can of PBR and says, "You fit in with me."

She's got me there.

But it's a matter of principle. Or pride. Or bullshit pseudo-machismo. Who knows?

It's a moot point, anyhow. The fact of the matter is, I made a decision, and I'm sticking to my guns. "I'll see you when I see you," I say, trying to sound as upbeat as I can muster.

I linger with my hand on the doorknob, waiting for Dolores' trademark, "Not if I see you first."

But no such luck. She's already left to rejoin the party.

And I head home, alone.

Meh. I dunno.

As a bonus, some holiday spirit:



Because I can.