Today, I ordered takeout, and received an empty fortune cookie.
When a friend has a bad breakup, and mistakenly turns to me for comfort, I always remind them "There are plenty of more worms in the graveyard. Maybe you could use one of those worms to go fishing, but most of the sea is pumped with trash and poison. Better to just stick with the worms."
Finished some late night Chinese food with Zuzu, Lot, and Zuzu's ex-husband. I opened my fortune cookie, ate it, and then read the following fortune:
Your problem just got bigger. Think, what have you done?
Seriously, fortune cookie? Seriously? Who the fuck gives dooming fortune cookies?
As I walk out of my house on Sunday afternoon, I find a scrap of paper on the ground. Being curious, I pick said piece of paper up. It says: Today is your lucky day. It was, evidently, not written by a prophet.
Further down the hill, a car swerves about three feet away from me at a rather alarming speed. It is passed by another car going slightly faster. The two vehicles swerve around each other a couple of times before one of them slams into the side of a building. The driver gets out and begins shouting a variety of well-chosen obscenities. Combining curses in such a way as to point out his fluence in profanity. "You cockcunting mother-doucher! I will...I'm gonna cut your blenderfucking neck off!" But the car he's yelling at is nearly out of site.
"You get him!" Cries one of the many people pouring out of the projects to take in this lovely matinee. "You hunt that cocksucker down and you kick his faggot ass!"
I debate shooting a disproving look at the probably homophobic rantist, but the car that sped away had been a purple Jeep, so the odds were good that the driver had sucked his fair share of cock. I have no way of knowing whether or not he ever fucked a blender.
"That shitsucking spermcicle cut me the fuck off a mile ago. Fucking dingo-raping maniac." Says the man who'd smashed his car into a building. I have no way of knowing whether he ever had sex with a dingo, or whether that sex was consensual.
"That piece of garbage!" Shouts one of my many, lovely, fellow Americans, from the throng of rubberneckers. "Y'oughtta kill him."
A few Hell Yeas ring out behind me.
Seeing as these are, clearly, not my people, I decide to quit gawking, and make my way to the nearest bus stop. I am followed by a Puerto Rican guy with dyed blond hair. He is wearing a tank top. Not one of those sweat-stained, hair-encrusted, man-boob accentuating tank tops, but one of those ab-defining, slightly-too-not-enough-short tank tops that renders someone incredibly fuckable, even if they don't look like a blond, slightly older, version of your boyfriend. Perhaps, it is my lucky day. My dick starts pulsing.
I am too busy not noticing him to notice that the evil 66 bus is pulling up to the stop. I reach the bus just as the driver shuts the doors. I knock on the door. The driver looks at me, and smiles. The bus drives away. Slowly. Cockcunting mother-doucher.
"I hate the sixty-six bus." Says Mr. Tank Top. "It's like it's programmed to show up at the least convenient times. And the drivers..." He lets the sentence hang there, as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "I fucken hate the drivers." He scratches the back of his neck, exactly the way Ben does when he's trying to pick up men.
My brain starts pulsing. "Yea." I say.
"My name is Kevin." He says, and shakes my hand.
Kevin. Kevin Kevin Kevin. I like the name Kevin. Kevin, who looks like Sora, which is sort of a plus, but who behaves like Ben, which is sort of a minus. Kevin whose voice reflects at least five years of Marlboro Reds, which is a plus, but whose clothes smell like at least five years of Marlboro Reds, which is a minus. My cock and my brain start fighting for blood.
I introduce myself.
"The schedule says there's twenty minutes between busses today. I figure that means we've got, what, an hour to hang out before the next one arrives." Then he scratches his neck and smiles. Is he actually flirting with me or just making conversation? "Crazy car crash, huh?" Establishment of event we experienced in common, accompanied by flirtatious smile, and inability to keep eye contact, penis pulls ahead of brain.
"Yea. I don't know which was crazier, the guy who crashed the car, or all those people who kept egging him on."
Kevin laughs. "I know, right. Do you smoke?" He is offering me cigarettes. My testicles perk up and start shouting Get him! This might just be both my cock and my brain's lucky day (probably not so great for my lungs, though).
"Not very often, but you're smoking my brand, so, sure." I smile. My cock is now miles ahead of my brain.
"Got a light?" He asks.
"I am the light, what you seek is fire." Fuck, now I'm stealing shitty mack lines from wannabe slam poets. I must be starting to like this guy.
Kevin smirks, then pulls a matchbook out of his pocket. "I'll take that as a no."
God, I think, he even smiles like my boyfriend, which is immediately followed by oh, right, I already have a boyfriend. Sort of. My brain is starting to catch up.
He lights my cigarette first. "Did you actually see the accident?"
"Yea," I say, "The purple Jeep almost hit me. It swerved around the silver...car...and then the silver one swerved around it, and then, well...you saw what happened after that."
"Yea." Stop saying yea. "I still can't get over all the people who kept telling him to hunt the guy down and kill him."
Kevin snorts. "Fucken niggers, all they understand is violence."
My brain and penis crash into my skull and zipper, respectively.
Kevin appears to notice this. "I'm not racist." He says. "But, you know, most of the crowd came out of the project buildings. So...I'm not saying they're niggers because they're black, but...you know...what kind of black they are."
I've heard this argument before. Anyone who thinks that defining themselves as a classist as opposed to a racist is going to win my favor, can go the fuck to Arizona.
I drop the cigarette, and put it out with my foot. "The bus is coming." I say, smiling. "Looks like sometimes the 66 does show up at convenient times."
Kevin gets off at Coolidge Corner, mumbling a weak "later" on his way out. I keep riding to Allston, where I stop in at the comic book store to harass my boss. Then I cross the street to print out some poems for slam rehearsals. Naturally, I've left my computer access card at home, and don't feel like dropping cash for a new card. This is not my lucky day, after all.
As I wait for the bus, an older lady, carrying a Trader Joe's bag, saunters up and starts small talking me. I reciprocate, not really saying anything of value.
"Thanks for being so friendly." She says, as the bus approaches. "I thought you looked like a good person."
She is probably a serial killer. I say this, not because she gives off creepy vibes, or because only serial killers think I'm a good person, but because I think she's a good person, and I'm a terrible judge of everything. Hence, Elvis. Hence, six months in Arifuckenzona. Hence, my brief attraction to Tank Top Kevin. Had he not just been some passing stranger at a bus stop, we probably would have moved in together, later adopting a Sudanese baby, who Kevin would try to raise to not be a nigger, leading me to separate from him, taking custody of the child and then moving back in with my mother, which is the worst thing I could do to the poor child besides leaving him with Kevin, and my adopted son will grow up to resent me taking him from one war front to another and then a third, until the day he has his eyes chewed out by an elderly lady who sort of remembers me as the nice guy she met at a bus stop in Boston decades ago. Poor Darius's life ruined because Kevin looked good in a tank top and smile.
One of my friends from The Cantab Lounge has a show next week. Possibly to soften me up so I'd come see her show, or more likely because she's just a good person, she gave me a ride home from last week's slam. During the car trip, she gave me a Valentine's Day gift that she'd been holding on to, as I'd not seen her since January. The gift? A plastic heart filled with little candy hearts.
I'd forgotten about the heart until tonight, when it fell out of my jacket pocket. Being slightly hungry, and in major need of a sugar rush, I opened up the plastic heart, and poured out its contents. The bag contained seventeen candy hearts, and they all said the same thing: "Wise up"
I'm a crush you with my teeth, you sarcastic little bitches. Then I'm going to lay in bed, reevaluating my life.
Tonight's fortune cookie (What? It's left over from last night. It's not like fortune cookies aren't already stale.)...so...tonight's fortune cookie says "Although it feels like a roller coaster now, life will calm down."
Oddly enough, tonight's fortune cookie, despite being from the same place, is a different color than last night's, and this one doesn't have any Chinese translations on it (last night's informed me that the chinese word "tang" means "sugar").
But, back to the fortune. I'm not sure I want my life to calm down. Ok, I don't ever plan on doing anything like a Foam Party again, and I doubt I'll ever meet another guy via a dating site, but I do have a friend visiting from out of town, and I'd hate for him to be bored. Don't get me wrong, I don't anticipate the visit being anything you're going to read about (unless he brings penguins, then I'll be erecting a monument in his honor [author's note: this is the first time in the history of this journal that "erect" has been used in a non-sexual manner]).
But, back to roller coasters. Apparently, when I was a kid, I used to love rollercoasters. At some point, one of those amusement park staples made me puke. And since then, no roller coasters for me. When I was nine or ten, my parents tricked me into going on "Thunderbolt Mountain" at Disney World. Man, they paid for that. I cried like a fashonista at a Phish concert.
Eventually I learned to appreciate fast, non-rollercoaster rides. I've gone white water rafting a few times, and I don't even want to contemplate how many tickets I've spent on The Gravitron at various fairs. But I hate fucken roller coasters. So if my life is a roller coaster, well...maybe a change is in order.
But, back to not boring people. I've discovered the ultimate conversation killer: craisins. Any time you're talking with a hot guy and you want to cause an uncomfortable silence, just mention the word "craisin". It's definitely going to be my safe word if I ever do any bondage play, which I'm never going to do, because I'm boring.
Tonight's fortune cookie says "A smile is your personal welcome mat."
Now you know why I sit on so many guys' faces.
(insert rimshot here...no rimjob jokes please)
"Ideas are like children; there are none so wonderful as your own."
Four out of the six lucky numbers are numbers of houses that I used to live in, and they're the good four (Windsor, CT the 2 places I lived in in Sandwich, MA and Quincy, MA). If Dorchester or Burlington had shown up, I would have turned this into confetti.
I place a lot of stock in fortune cookies with accurate lucky numbers. The last one I kept was from a Chinese place in Burlington. I was on my way to Kinko's to print out the very first copies of "feeling elvis" and the fortune cookie said "You will write a book some day." I think i still have it in a box somewhere (provided it wasn't MelissaPlummerized).
In other exciting food news, the 7-11 has finally given up on selling peach flavored Propel Fitness Water (Peach flavored??? yucK). THe new kiwi/strawberry is nearly as good as the berry and the lemon. That was one of the most boring sentences I've ever written. No, wait, that one was.