I Touched Someone's Goiter Today

** You must understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, that these narratives happened to me or to people I know. Mostly me.

I touched someone's goiter today only because she asked me to. I hesitated, of course, because this sort of invitation is not like being asked to have lunch together. It is the farthest thing from casual. It doesn't happen everyday, and it shouldn't happen at all because it shatters the boundaries of good form and crosses over to "What the fuck, woman?" I hope you, My Dearly Beloved, understand my hesitation. See, you don't comply to moving your fingers up and down someone's greasy throat just to cop a feel on their iodine deficiency. You don't. You might as well smell skin cancer, or lick the stitches of an appendectomy wound. You don't. You just don't, because such constraint is in keeping with the courtesy that is expected of sober people. You can always ask, because asking is polite, or you can wait for them to appeal to your sympathy through means that are convincingly hands on. 

Our first liter of cheap brandy, 50 proof, was two hours ago, and this second liter shredded our restraints in no time at all. Anyway, how we in the Third World do it is that we sit in a circle and rotate the shot glass in the direction that's assigned by whoever's pouring the shot. It's not usually a circle, not necessarily, since it depends on where we're drinking and how many of us are trying to get shit faced. Sometimes it's a semi circle, most especially when we're drinking on the streets, usually below a lamp post. It's a semi circle to give room to passers by, who usually smile off that shot glass that we offer, and tricycles and refrigerator mechanics on their way to a job at one in the morning. It could be a rectangle, or a square, depending on the shape of the table. This is, however, a luxury on two counts. First, a fully functional table is uncommon with these impromptu get togethers. And by "fully functional" I mean "having four legs." We rest our liter of brandy, the chaser, and the shot glass on a make shift table supported by hollow blocks. Second, you need space to accommodate the drinking table and its occupants. And you don't get that luxury when you're drinking on the streets below a lamp post at one in the morning. 

That's how we roll. 

Goiter Girl still doesn't look any younger than a 40 year old house wife that's marinating her liver with that second bottle of cheap 50 proof. She was the one pouring the shots then, and she was doing a capital job. She never missed, her shots were prompt, and her stories kept flowing out of that dirty mouth. I wasn't paying attention to her because my drunk texting can't wait. The honest truth is that I was distracted during the second liter, so I had to ask her again when she solicited her goiter. "I'm sorry what," was the only thing in my head. 

Maybe she was thinking I had healing hands. And maybe I can't blame her poor, darling heart; that bitch's face was mahogany with 50 proof brandy. She thought wrong, unfortunately, and I will not enlarge on her ridiculous imagination. You see, My Dearly Beloved, I cannot even heal the dick that erects for other men's dick. And my healing hands have been trying twice a day, for about thirty years now, since I learned how.


I swallowed my spit, in secret, as my fingers cupped that pregnant growth on her neck. And I wiped my hands on my jeans when she wasn't looking. 

Why Do I Love You?

**This is for the Amazeballs Dude who will sweep me off my feet, or knees, once I get to meet him. You just pray that it won't be anytime soon, baby. You will be living on a soft diet until we're too old to dog style. And you can count on that, for sure. Meanwhile, I elected to post this now since I needed a break from nearly a month of writing all that death. 

I love the gentle warmth of the sun as it shines on my body in a tender morning embrace. I love the soft descent of raindrops on my skin in a welcome act of cleansing. I love the smile on my mother's eyes as she watches over me with unconditional approval. I love the reassuring presence of my brothers and sisters. I love the laughter of my closest friends as it registers the purest of loyalties. I love the scent of the bound pages of a book as they trickle on my nose. I love hearing my nephew's voice on the phone. 

I love puffing on my first cigarette in the morning as much as the last for the night. I love Janis Joplin's vocal register because there is nothing like it in another human being. I love getting punctured by a tattoo needle at the rate of 1,200 stabs a minute or 20 stabs a second. I love how Darryl shot a rocket launcher to this group of six biker assholes in this episode of the Walking Dead. Where the fuck did that come from? I love that I'm 35 now because I don't overthink as much as I did in my twenties. I love waking up after seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. 

I love casting a Hypnotic Specter and a Hymn to Tourach on the first turn of a Magic the Gathering duel. And I love the look of surrender on my opponent's face since he's playing green with a handful of Giant Growths and Llanowar Elves. I love commuting on a holiday because I have C5 all to myself along with this cab driver who won't charge me extra because he's just as grateful as I am. I love the twenty to thirty people who smile at me with teeth and sincerity because they give the finger, figuratively, to the two or three people who hate me in secret. I love going home to a finished download that's six to eight gigs huge. 

I do not know why I love you. And I don't know when I'll meet you. But I have decided to love you, and I will love you as much as all these combined. 

Shit Break One of Four

Seeing as I've been pretty much consistent with my Friday updates, more or less, I went ahead and elected to give this week's update the shit break it needs. I'll be back with the word count next Friday, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. Until then, try not to look down. You're pissing on your Doc Martens.   

Be Still, Little Kitten

**There is no greater horror than the truly unexpected. 

Its small, whiskered face rested on a black and white head that floated on a puddle of red. It was lying on its side, in this gutter that was otherwise dry with cigarette butts. Its two front paws clawed furiously towards the air, each motion weaker than the last, like it was drowning and soon will. Its little arms were brisk in movement, and it seemed more like a hummingbird now than a kitten. Its small mouth was agape, and its tongue, pink, was rigid with each weakening effort for air. 

I cannot unsee this, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. Could you? 

There is this dying kitten a few feet away from me, and I am still of the honest opinion that cats do have nine lives. This terrible vision, however, modified my opinion, made me think, if you will. Cats earn their eight other lives as the go along in life, much like our vacation leaves in the office. This kitten, no more than a foot, didn't have that chance to earn more, so it's hanging on to the one it's losing. There was another kitten next to it, just as small, perhaps its sister, and it was smelling her. But it was cautious for its nose was a few inches away. 

My feet were the troubled wind that rushed home. I cannot look back at it, because I will detect another haunting detail that I might have overlooked. We had a cat when I was around ten years old, and it ate one of its days old kitten because it was mad with hunger. I remember how small those intestines were as they littered our green kitchen floor. Meanwhile, I am now possessed of this gnawing urge to document. And I am writing this a few minutes after this horrible vision has tattooed itself on to my mind's eye. It is only a few minutes, and I hope that unloved little creature received the one appropriate mercy it deserves. I hope it has stilled its convulsions. 

Tatay Doro

**"Tatay" is Third World for "Father." 

The sheer irrelevance of this picture to this post is truly a jarring thing. But I'm using this anyway because old people covered with tattoos are nothing short of inspiring. 

You will think that his smile was congenital, like a hare lip, the way it  was always on him every time, every single time I saw him. Every single time. This went on with remarkable consistency all those years I knew him since 2003. And it never occurred to me, not once, to ask him if he ever tired of smiling. He was already old the first time he smiled at me on the first day we met. Doesn't his face tire of all that cheer? He wasn't smiling today because Tatay Doro died of a heart attack Friday at nine in the morning. And whoever did his make up did an admirable job. He looked 70. 

I once wrote about championing a nine ball tournament in 2005. Imagine that. An effeminate gay guy winning a billiards tournament. And I mention that because Tatay Doro is a memorable part of my Pool Playing Years. His was the name on the billiards hall where I was an official queen in 2005 and 2006. I was there four to five hours on any given Saturday, and then around three hours Sunday. My kinky night job was rather taxing to my then true passion, and making the time to play pool on a week day was a bitching adventure. But I managed to squeeze in around two hours a day, alternatingly perhaps, because I needed to play pool. Tatay Doro always had a table ready for us, and a smile, and we never waited more than ten minutes on the off chance that we had to wait for our turn. 

Rumors have it that Doro's Place closed in 2008 because someone gambled most of the capital. That may or may not be true, and it doesn't make a difference now. I remember seeing Tatay Doro less and less since the usual opportunity was no longer open for business. But I remember seeing him every now and then, in between unexpected glacial periods, and his collared shirts were getting bigger and his face was getting smaller. His smile was beginning to lose some of it's sunshine, but the difference is ever so faint. That smile was still there. 

I imagine that he's somewhere in these gardens now in the last day of his wake. The report of his death is stunning, which is an unusual word for anything in your News Feed. I had to pay my last respects to this solid man of cheer. It is now eight pm on a humid Sunday evening, and I am surrounded by old age. Perhaps he's sitting on one of those cream colored monoblock chairs in that table of well dressed old people. Hardy was one of his truly dedicated friends, and he's here in spite of the second stroke he suffered last week. I see Tatay Doro seated on a chair behind Hardy, his ear a few inches away from Hardy's labored speech. I imagine he's catching up to a dear friend who came to pay his last respects. I notice that Tatay Doro's gray hair is still thick in spite of, how does he do that, and that pair of shades, brown is on him like it was every single time he waved hi. Did you know that he never took those shades off, not once? That smile felt genuine without the eyes anyway, so I don't think that matters at all. And I think he's smiling at me now.