Friday, August 24, 2012

This is not a date

From the short-short story archives.  Enjoy.  Or, actually, sorry.


He avoided using the word “date” at all costs. Meet up, get-together, or the worst, "hang out." I believe that's the current preferred phrase. What's silly and kind of sweet in an aw-shucks way is that he actually thinks calling dates "hanging out" precludes him from any mature adult behavior such as doing what you say you're going to do. A novel concept to many if you can believe it. He nixes the word date but keeps the other funky favorites like "I'll call you" and "let's do this again." How about "Thank you. It was a nice evening. Take care."? No promises there, right? He can go back to his studio apartment and play War of Worldcraft until this wrists burn with tendonitis. The woman can go home and realize, while he was nice and spoke extensively about current events, he is not going to call for a second date. "But…but why?" No. Stop right there. "But…" No. It does not really matter. Don't give it another thought. He won't.

If he does get to a second date – excuse me – second hanging-outing, hang-outing? No, that can't be right. Anyway. A second time seeing a woman, he then shuns any more activities that give an appearance of a date. He goes straight to "come to my place for pizza and maybe we'll rent a movie." The evening that starts with this woman coming face to face with this guy, obviously not long out of bed from a nap, the pizza not even ordered and something always, always has to be moved off the couch so she can sit down. He'll offer her a beer, which she doesn't like and told him on their first hang-out (hanging-outness? No, um…), but he offers reflexively because he's used to entertaining his male friends. She'll settle for soda that might be around from the last time his mom visited. She cringes.

She will do her best to look past all this and just concentrate on the fact that he said he would call, and he did, and he invited her to his home, which she notices the carpet was not vacuumed but she is still impressed with the phone call.

What's sad is that she knows sure as she's sitting on a lumpy futon, sure as I know it, and you reading know it that this evening is all about getting laid to him and all he's out is the cost of a half a pizza (because idiot that she is will offer to pay half). He'll get turned down and abuse himself later in the shower after she leaves but at least he finally got rid of that can of diet coke that had been in the door of  the fridge.

Friday, August 17, 2012


A nice round number.  A lot of hope is hanging on it.  One short story.  Twenty submissions.  There have been rejections, but counting those up and posting them here flies in the face of my little self pep talk.

Come on [insert name here] lit journal, liberate my story!  I gotta move on.

Monday, August 13, 2012

let's talk about it

Ennui. I used to really dig that word. Used it all the time. I even had Webster's definition nerdily memorized: a feeling of weariness and dissatisfaction: boredom

Some things never change. Could be the ennui tide rolls in and out in the chemical tide of my brain. Hold on. Bad metaphor. High tide is supposed to be good, right? But then that would give me higher levels of ennui, which is bad. Isn't it? Oh shit. Back to the drawing board.

Via Flickr:
good for what ails ya, if what ails ya is ennui.