I spent the weekend in bed, at least partially because I was sick (and tired), but largely because I pay for cable, and I'll be damned if the Trinity Broadcasting Network (i.e. all church, all the time) is going to cost me $60 a month.
I fell asleep last night to "Zombies: A Living History," and found myself thinking that while romantic comedies, sitcoms, and Freud may observe that our beds are haunted, the truth is not that there's a ghost town in my pants, though I swear I caught sight of a tumbleweed the other day.
No, those aren't ghosts - friendly, translucent phantasms, hovering just outside reality. Those are not spirits of my exes. And those bastards did not, I tell you, have the decency to up and die. No, as I lay in bed - warm and cozy in a house that, my nearly dead octogenarian father's health necessitates I keep at a seasonable 76 degrees - I found myself thinking that it was not the ghosts of my past that cause me grief. It is the rotting, stinking, sad-sack, shambling, withered and dying, festering corpses of my lost love that keep trying to eat my face off.
The 21 year old I was briefly doing during the Old Black Man's hospitalization - a period I affectionately call, "free at last, free at last ... Great G-d almighty, I am free at last ..." - recently sexted me at 5AM. This prompted me to think, both that I am too old for sexting, and also that he must be high, because booty calls take place between 11:30 and 3AM, unless otherwise established (or you're a stripper).
Nevertheless, hoping to rekindle the "free at last ..." magic, by sneaking his skinny ass in through the broken screen on the back door, I responded. We were just getting to the point of making arrangements when Wally told me he was going to charge for our next encounter.
Y'all may not have heard the story, but this is the same boy who, in a foolish fit of ambition and hormones, plunged himself onto my manhood ... and, promptly, yelped, hunched over, and fell off. He left a broken man - talking wistfully about a hot bath, and this is the no-'ccount small child that wants me to pay for another case of blue balls!?!
He was only the second in as many days to ask for a donation.
The 19 year old with whom I passed one lovely, short afternoon, and who subsequently stole my father's pain pills, called me up and asked to meet, with the understanding I'd 'help him out' afterwards.
The architect with whom I had two dates, and with whom I cannot fathom a third, didn't ask for money. He just didn't have any cash and was slow on the draw with his credit card. Real slow.
Of course, he made up for it by being quick with the quips, the chides, the insults, and the comparisons to his dear friend - of whom I reminded him so. The dear friend, when I saw a picture, was nearly 60, fat, and wearing a caftan. Not even ironically.
And then there is that long-time plus one, who is himself pushing 60, and who I dumped - quite ceremoniously - just the other day. Like the undead before him, he won't stay down. I'm supposed to 'save the night' for Thursday, when he gets back into town.
Now, I've never seen "The Walking Dead," but I watched "Zombieland" three times. In the absence of a shotgun, or an Escalade, do you think garden shears will get the job done, or do I need to drop a piano on somebody?
In the battle of the rotting corpses of desire versus my sanity, someone's going down - and they're already halfway there!
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