alliteration

i do my best to not ever act like some fucking college-educated elitist. i don't correct people's grammar, and i think it's bad form to correct others'. sometimes, though, it's hard. hard. and the story i'm about to tell is going to make me sound like one of those fucking elitists.

i hung out with some of my neighbors today. after exhausting one household, i stole their leftover chinese and invited another neighbor over. she really wanted to watch the finales of 'american idol' and 'the bachelor'. as 'angel' has sung its swan song, and i like company, we did so.

later, her booty friend stopped by to hang out. he was stoked that 'special ten million dollar who wants to be a millionaire blah blah' was on. whatever, it's company, right?

we had a hearty debate over which of the states listed might have two republican senators. then a new question came up: 'which of these trademarked names is also an alliteration?' the choices were pepperidge farms (which i may have misspelled), two other thingies, and krispy kreme.

me and the guy, we both agreed that it was clearly krispy kreme.

my neighbor, G: goddamn. i don't even know what alliteration means.

her booty friend: it means they spelled it with different letters.

G: wait, what?

BF: see, those words are supposed to be spelled with a C, but they spell 'em with a K.

G: wow. you ARE smart. sometimes shows like these make me feel like a special needs kid.

i cannot begin to tell you how hard it was to hold my tongue. i wouldn't have been an asshole about it, either. i just felt like maybe i needed to correct him.

but, in the long run, what difference does it really make? the man's 39 years old. he doesn't need a lesson in alliteration.

it was equally as difficult when he kept saying 'cinnamon'.

the word on the screen was 'synonym'.

(i feel bad even repeating this story.)



what am i doing with my life?

more pictures

first, i've been checking out zack's archives lately, and read a post that resonated with me quite a bit. i hope he doesn't mind me linking an old post, and i hope anyone clicking on it enjoys it.

some more vegas (sorry for the linkage only. i've not got the patience currently for anything else.):

saturday evening started out innocently enough. then J worked his magic and soon had all the women. the evening ended like most of the evening had gone--with my sister messing around with her very short skirt.

sunday morning began with the sun shining through the shades we did not shut tightly enough against the desert light. this caused us to sleep and sleep and sleep until the only thing we had time to do was visit some sharks at the mandalay bay. i got to pet this one. its skin felt rough and i wanted to put it in my purse and take it home. on the way out of the mandalay bay, readying to begin the real fun for the night, we passed the noodle shop. i don't know what it is about that sign, but it makes me laugh and laugh. and laugh.

saturday evening the true hootenanny began. the hurricanes were to blame. too many hurricanes, yessirree. someone had bought this guy a ridiculously bedazzled hat. so he thought it would be a good idea to spread the stupidity around with these glasses. i even convinced this moderate-looking man to put them on. then, probably only because of heavy fat tire imbibition, i even talked J into putting them on.

the australian man in the back there, right next to J, he's a dirty old man. i was talking to his cohort, and he reached for my hand like he was going to look at my bracelet. he admired it for a beat, then as soon as i turned back to talk to his friend, i felt my finger ENTER HIS MOUTH. i smacked him around a bit, which only made him ask if i'd TAKE MY SHOES OFF. those wacky australians.

a good time was had by all. there were even some tiger couches, male strippers, an old nice and smooth song, and people not sleeping in their own hotel rooms. but i didn't get pictures of any of that.

sarah fox

my sympathies, prayers, and hopes are going out to mike, and to sarah, and to sarah's family and friends.

i wish life wasn't this way.

i admit defeat

vegas kicked my ass, swiftly and assuredly. but as i hold up my white flag, i'll be smiling from ear to ear.

i know i've mentioned this before. but girls in a pack = WEIRD.

also, again, holy crap about my audbloggie post. dvl is right about the "this one time, in bandcamp..." thing. totally right.

there's a funny story involving a stupid hat and some stupid glasses, but i'll just post some pictures instead. once i can kick my old scanner into gear again.

i just got a few pics delivered from J's camera phone. i think the less we say about this one the better. no, i'm not stoned. he actually got me in the middle of simply talking. yes, apparently THAT is what i look like when i talk. and that is especially what i look like when i talk with a bedazzled hat on my head and giant pink glasses over my eyes.

i finally found out what's better than having a close buddy who's of the opposite sex (you know, for advice from the other side and all). having a close buddy who's of the opposite sex and recently came into money and currently doesn't have a girlfriend to spend it on. myself, and the pack of girls, benefitted greatly from this. he's so smooth they didn't even know they were beneficiaries.

but really, did they think the lady just forgot to ask them in particular for the $20 cover charge? women.

so this one time i dropped a buck into a machine, and i walked away with $12.50 and this other time i turned $6 into FIFTEEN. like my new vegas friend told me: "whoa. it's a good thing you don't come to vegas often, or i don't know how the city'd even stay in business."

from now on, anytime i'm on vacation and i meet someone new, i will immediately ask where they live. if it is east of the mighty mississippi, i think i will halt the conversation. because i'm tired of finding out that someone is exceptionally interesting and THEN finding out i will probably never see them again.

there were seven of us. three of us got lucky. 43% ain't too bad. 43%, for sure, is nothing to shake a stick at (and please someone tell me what the fuck that even means).

pictures and whatnot to follow. for now, i have to make kissyfaces at my liver, my brain, and my lungs in hopes that they'll start operating correctly again.

bright lights

i'm so excited i can barely stand it.

i've only done vegas with the parents or at a convention. and i've always had fun, but this trip offers a different sort of dynamic.

this might be my first "what happens in vegas stays in vegas" adventure.

i might have to christen my week-old audblog account. (it's been sitting dusty so far because i have this slight phobia about speaking to things. like, i could never order pizza, or drive-thru. and it took forever for me to handle a boat radio. enough drinks, though...)

and now i'm off to go home, eat well, and sleep lots in preparation.

yes.

horns

oliver hangs out in the office next door to mine. i named him, but it's obvious why. i mean, just look at him.

i bring up oliver for one very simple reason.

i realized just this morning how horny i am. it started when a coworker walked over to our side of the building to ask for some help. as soon as i smelled his cologne, which i don't think he usually wears, i felt the horniness come out from hiding.

i feel bad for this guy, because i think he's gonna be stuck with me having a crush on him the rest of the day.

it would seem that having vegas in my very near future could present a solution to this problem. but, alas, i have sworn off casual sex for the time being.

but as long as i don't smell any good cologne, i think i'll be alright. may have to spend some quality alone-time this evening, though, just to take the edge off. or maybe get G to stuff that tube up my nose to take my mind off it.

elephant

i finally saw "elephant" last night.

so strange. so not what i was expecting. the young actor who plays the badder of the two bad kids...holy crap. impressive.

i read a review for "elephant" in EW recently. they slammed it for not having any answers. i was onboard with this sentiment until the end of the movie, when i realized that that was the exact point gus van sant was probably going for. there always isn't a "why". sometimes there's just IS.

if any of ya'll have seen this flick, please comment or email me. i'm curious what other folks think.

also, if you want to buy me that poster, that'd be cool, too. the design is pretty rad. i like elephants.

surprise planes

i have this recurring fantasy that people are busy flying across the country to surprise me.

for example, if i try to call someone, and get dumped directly into their voicemail, i think: well, obviously their phone is off because they are on a plane that is in the air on its way to surprise me.

or, maybe, someone will break a routine of thrice-daily emails. ah, yes. must be on a plane and away from the computer. on their way to surprise me.

my friend caroline is on her way to apartment hunt in kentucky. or, as my twisted little brain like to call it, "apartment hunt in kentucky." because i know what she's really doing. she's on a plane on her way to come surprise me.

there is a variation to this fantasy. it's when i'm traveling somewhere, and everyone i know knows that i'll be there so then they get busy and get on planes so they can meet me there. surprise!

this weekend, in vegas, i will fully expect to receive at least one unexpected phone call. it might be damian, or caroline, or my sister (wait, she's already gonna be there), or maybe even guido. maybe my neighbor G, or hell, maybe my friggin' boss. or all of the above.

as far as my fantasy is concerned, the whole WORLD is readying for their big trip to vegas this weekend to surprise me.

sometimes, it doesn't feel like a fantasy. for a moment, it feels real and i get excited about my surprise visitor.

i wait for a knock on my door, or a smiley phone request for a pick up.

yup. i am positive that--right this very minute--someone is headed my way via an altitude of 35,000 feet.

surprise!

looking before leaping

i do not like it when people seem hellbent on irritating my peeves (pet, that is). but i'm on the second week of my period, so i'm hardpressed to think of something that ISN'T a peeve. still, though. fuckers should watch themselves. put the peeves down. step away from the peeves.

no more angel. i don't care what anyone says, they all totally bit it in the end. and it was PERFECT.

2 clear indications that you've had too much to drink:

1) you dry your angel-inspired tears to find 'footloose' airing on vh1. you get sentimental about the scene where all the couples ride on dirtbikes out to the prom site, and you smack your friend on the leg and point and say, "awwww. look. they're all on their motorcycles. it's BEAUtiful."

then, you start singing along with kenny loggins' "i'm free (heaven helps the man)". when he sings, "running away will never make me free," you smack your friend again, repeat the line like you're having an epiphany, and jump up to find a pen and paper. just so you can write down the following: running away will never make me free.

2) you neighbor, G, who is a nurse, stops by and starts talking a lot of nursetalk. she ends by saying, "you know those tubes they force up your nose and down your throat and into your stomach so they can pump carbon into you? i've always wanted to parlay that into a party trick; get someone to let me do it to them outside of work."

you immediately answer, "okay." she giggles and tells you she's kidding. you say, "well. i'd still do it. let me know."

i really have a problem with jumping at an idea before i've let it marinate. and it won't surprise me a bit if G shows up at my door tonight in her scrubs, holding up some sort of tubey thing.

hell yeah!

i try to steer clear of these things, but this last hour of work today is trying to KILL me. i also can't stop thinking about making out. muggin' up (or maybe it's 'muggin' down'), if you will. but yeah, check this shit out:


You're a Spirograph!!

You're pretty tripped out, even though you've been known to be a bit boring at times.

You manage to serve your purpose in life while expending hardly any effort (and are probably stoned to the gills all the while).

What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

not fade away

i could go on and on about a stupid television show, but i'll spare you. suffice it to say, J and i are going to have to figure out some other show to watch every wednesday night.

if you want to hear a grown-ass woman cry, call me at 10:01 pacific time tonight. it won't be pretty.

october 23, 2000. english 315.

there is a long version. but i decided to take the easy way out and just copy and paste something i wrote for another assignment. (i'd like to note that not only was this written almost FIVEFOUR [hey, i wasn't a math major] years ago, but the assignment had a maximum word count, and required a specific voice formality.) and a big shout out to ajax.

Of course boot camp was a challenge. I hate it when people ask me that: "So, was boot camp hard?" What do you think? If it were all fun and pony rides the military wouldn't struggle to entice new enlistees every fiscal quarter.

It was a challenge I embraced; a challenge I needed in my life. I had three semesters of college behind me and not a lick of future aspiration. So on a whim I drove thirty miles to the nearest recruiter's office. As Petty Officer Johnson handed me the preliminary paperwork, he began explaining the difficulties to expect in boot camp. He offered up a videotape. I cut him off.

I grabbed the paper and said, "I don't care. Where do I sign?"

It was time for me to step into something unknown and uncomfortable. How do you truly grow when you're attending a home state college with mommy and daddy footing the bill? When your vacation time is spent working at the same movie theatre you've worked at since you were sixteen?

So I signed away four active-duty years of my life and went off to Cape May, New Jersey, to begin basic training. There were some crying days, but none of them belonged to me. I'd try to comfort my squadbay mates when they felt broken down and homesick. But a part of me found it almost disgusting--all this sniffling and whining. What did they expect? They voluntarily signed on the dotted line. They were after something new like I was, right? So why the crybaby attitude after only one week?

I embraced the structure. My friends back home thought it was crazy for me and my liberal attitude to join a military environment. Warned me that I was probably making the biggest mistake of my life.

I came to learn, though, that there is a certain and strange freedom in harsh structure. There are no decisions to make, little or big; they're already made for you. For eight weeks every one of my minutes was planned and guided by the government. Even the beatings started to feel good. After four weeks of constantly being barked at to drop and do various exercises, I was proud to be able to do it without tiring.

I'm not suggesting that people would be better off with no free will. I'm suggesting the opposite. Sometimes thinking too much about life can impede actually living life. I had been trapped by my overanalytical mind. Boot camp removed that option from my lifestyle for two months, allowing me to appreciate and prioritize my free will once it was returned to me.

Was boot camp hell? Fuck yeah, and I relished every preplanned minute of it.

the weekend

last weekend's drunken voicemails:

subordinate:

hi there i’m drunk dialing you because this fucker next to me thinks that robert ferguson is going to have a better receiving year than jervon walker, which unless they’re a breakout rookie--not likely--he’s full of crap since third year is statistically the best receiving year. i was calling for support since i just found out you’re a packer fan and i have season tickets so if you’re up for flying you should come to a game, bye.

muscle68:

a lot of people don’t rage on a sunday night, because they think everyone works on mondays, but there are other people who don’t work mondays, making sunday night a definite rager night. you’re probably asleep and not raging, but you should be raging and maybe you’ll rage some other sunday. take care. goodnight.

i should point out that, though i am a packers fan, i am not a FAN. i don't know football, and i have no idea really what he's talking about in that message. i may have gotten the pertinent players' names and positions wrong. *shrug*

raging on a sunday. PLEASE. i'm too old for that shit. kind of.

back

you know how one of the things you miss about a lover once they're gone is that funny little things would happen to you and you'd make notations in your head so you could tell that person all about them later and you could simultaneously toss your heads back in rapturous laughter? yeah, so this blog doesn't technically laugh with me, but holy shit is my brain gonna explode if i don't spew forth posthaste.

i had to look up "posthaste". i originally spelled it as two separate words. that's what happens with you go through blogging withdrawal.

it hasn't even been that long. but i do think i'm gonna have to delete my tracker. it's making me crazy.

let's see...in a nutshell:

1) foxfire in anaheim hills: do NOT go. when you see the sign that says "$8 cover" and you are in the middle of an outer suburb and it makes you wonder why there's any cover at all... go with that feeling. sometimes your gut is right. you will be confused by the lounge band, which will make you think you're in vegas (especially when they launch into their rendition of 'i like the way you move'), and the plethora of middle-aged hawaiian shirts, which will make you think florida. but then, when you realize you've been had, shut up and drink a bunch of beer and have a few shots of jager. laugh at your predicament whenever no one is looking.

2) girls, especially in packs, are fuckin' weird.

3) first-time brazilian wax: fucking OUCH.

4) rockstar boy: came over. played pool. "watched a movie". eh.

5) zinger: i would assume he's not interested since he never seems to have the time to actually hang out, but he's still calling all the time and telling me all about his life. eh.

6) due to a late-night car alarm, i finally met the neighbors who reside in the three apartments adjacent to mine. one couple has since cooked me dinner, the other couple has taken me out for sushi, and the single chick had me over on friday night and plied me with lots of alcohol before answering my phone as a prank. i love them all. and i will continue to love them all as long as they continue to give/buy me things. though i think my patio furniture is still scattered about the complex, so maybe they've won.

7) i had the honor of teaching one of my neighbors the word "conundrum". he now misuses it at every opportunity. he's also a phenomenal lightweight, which causes him to vomit non sequiturs. for example, in the middle of eating sushi and discussing cheese, he leans over the table, points at his girlfriend, nods, and loud-whispers, "she has her CLIT pierced, you know."

8) first drum lesson: awesome. plus, my teacher is rad. i think we're gonna work on some fundamentals for a month or two, then i'm gonna withhold payment until he agrees to only teach me how to ROCK. as long as rocking doesn't require any right-hand dexterity. because it turns out that my right hand may be good at some things, but rocking is not one of them.

9) company-sponsored day at the range. i'm no gunchick, but i started getting bored, so i just wandered station to station, loading guns and firing them off. fun! J was filming the day with his new camera, and captured me at the m16. it's kinda hot in a girl-and-a-big-black-gun kind of way, but i'm not really happy with the way my arm fat jiggled with every recoil. time to work out the triceps! i also couldn't figure out how to work the clay-flinger, which got enough laughs out of any observers. but what got the most laughs was when i gave up on the flinger and started chucking them freehand. i wasn't any good at that, either.

10) florida boy called. it's been two years of back and forth with this fucker, and he's broken my heart one and a half times. it's been four months without a peep. i didn't answer. D instructed me to change his name to "Ignore" in my phonebook, so that when and if he ever called, the call would come with instructions. it worked like a charm.

11) vegas this weekend. yee-fucking-haw!

whew.

the story about why i "joined the army or whatever" will follow soon. it's been bugging kooky "humphrey bogart" komments, and lord knows you want to stay on kooky's good side by doing whatever he wants.

time to refocus, ya'll

seis de mayo

last night on 'angel', andrew answered the door wearing a strongbad shirt. ROCK.

this morning, my favorite radio station played a new my morning jacket song. and i thought they couldn't do any better than back when they first started broadcasting and they played bright eyes. is it wrong to be in love with radio airwaves?

i think someone should probably put me out of my misery. i've caught myself watching romances on dvd lately. but i don't realize that that's what i'm doing until halfway through the movie, when i smack my palm to my forehead and think what a dumbass chick i am. the movies ARE good: billy's hollywood screen kiss, some girl, waking the dead, happy accidents...

happy accidents, by the way, is one of those movies that deserved much more exposure than it got. that movie kicks ass.

i've gotta go to the music store today to purchase my drummy drum drum stuff. it's going to be an overwhelming experience. i'm already getting nervous about my first lesson.

vegas in two weeks. i talked J into going with me. my sister and her girlfriends will be there. they all know each other from work, and they are all nurses. four hot nurses sharing a hotel room. maybe that's why J agreed to go. remind me to save my money. i'm doin' vegas PROPER this time.

cinco de mayo

alright, folks. thirty second history lesson before you go slam a bunch of tequila and complain of brain freeze from sucking too hard on the straw in your frozen margarita:

Cinco de Mayo began as a celebration of victory in battle, specifically the battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862, in which a 33-year-old Mexican General named Ignacio Zaragoza led his beleaguered forces to victory over the French invaders.

now go get drunk.

dear california,

when we first met, i didn't like you very much. you were hot, but distant. your springs are not midwest green and your autumns are not new england red. the rows and rows of earthtone stucco leave me cold, and my eyes yearn for the architecture of the northeast or the midatlantic.

your skies bear nary a cloud, and it's almost true that it never rains in southern california. the cost of living here has me in financial straits. my beloved car is constantly covered in your dust.

your inlands get hot enough that dry timber just spontaneously explodes come spring and summer, starting off brushfires that last for weeks.

your traffic, to say the least, leaves something to be desired.

but lately, for the first time in three years, i'm starting to look at you in a new way. i live about a mile away from one of your finest beaches. your coastal evenings are cool and comfortable no matter what the high of the day was.

your residents, though not outwardly friendly, can be quite engaging if one is willing to exert some initial effort.

it's starting to feel like... home. i don't have a large support network out here, it's true. but my family and friends are just a phone call away, as they've always been since i moved away. and people like to visit me, because of your mediterranean weather and what your relaxed atmosphere has done to my personality.

i think i will end up leaving you someday soon, but i have a feeling i will return.

while i'm gone though, can you work on your colors? i'd really like to see something besides shades of brown.

also, i have yet to figure out your young men. if there is some kind of instruction booklet or something--something i don't know about since i wasn't born under your tutelage--let me know.

you got me, cali. you finally broke me down.

pink eye

my bosses decided that even though the doctor said there was no need for me to be quarantined, they didn't want me around today due to my very contagious conjuctivitis. so i went to the beach.

there was no lifeguard on duty, but that was okay as i had no plans to get in the water.

i brought along my incredibly ugly beach blanket. it was three dollars. the 'prettier' ones were five dollars.

i have to admit i'm jealous of the people who live in houses like these. i should probably start saving some money.

is it possible that i've stayed out of the sun for so long that my melanin has actually shut down? because i'm one and a half shades from albino, and i was on that beach for a good ninety minutes and i've got no burn. i've got nothing. except my freckles came out from hiding.

my eye is not happy with all the exposure to sunlight. so i'm headed for the couch where i plan to try and look at a lot of stuff through closed eyelids.

crusty

crap. well, i guess it was my turn.

i woke up in the middle of the night to find both my eyes sealed shut. but, seeing how it was the middle of the night and i didn't have to have my eyes open yet, i went back to sleep. but then when the alarm went off, my left eye refused to cooperate.

so, now i'm off to the doctor's. maybe they'll tell me i'm too contagious to go to work. which will actually kind of suck, because i'm no good given that much free time. ooh, i wonder if i can hang out in the pool? maybe not...

the one good thing is that the light blue in my eyes looks killer surrounded by red.

stupid pink eye.

the weekend

i forgot to go rollerskating. i got all wrapped up in a vhs movie that i dragged out of the deepest recesses of my room.

i had an insult-off with a six-year-old. i totally would've won if i'd been able to bring out the big guns. but, seeing how she's six and all, she beat my ass with "yeah? well YOU're a weenie head."

my new friend's comment to this? "you can see how we might've been shocked when we found out how old you really are."

my other new friend, she looks almost exactly like jaime pressley. i mean, almost exACTly. she's stopped every twenty minutes or so by men telling her so. she's friggin' gorgeous.

the thing is that, when i was younger, it would've killed me to hang out with someone like her. don't get me wrong, i'm not a bad lookin' chick myself--but i am no jaime pressley. now, though, i think it's kind of a relief. the pressure is completely off of me. i know that anyone prone to scope a place for a score is going to swoop down on her first. and she handles these swoops with complete aplomb. i don't have to sweat it. to top it off, she's super cool.

a guy bummed a cigarette from me. he was wearing a maroon trucker hat, sideways, that said ARKANSAS on it. he asked me what my tattoo meant. i told him it meant "go razorbacks!" his jaw dropped and he pointed to his head. "dude! wow! have you seen my HAT?" an hour later, he and his buddy tried to convince me to bring my friends to their frat house for an afterparty.

a FRAT HOUSE. i'm gettin' too old for this shit.

then i ate some red robin and saw 'meangirls'. it wasn't the best movie ever, but i found it entertainingly watchable with a few pretty golden moments. i probably won't ever see it again.

11pm sunday night: so come over and watch a movie with me.

uh...it's eleven on a sunday.

yeah? come on. we'll watch the movie, you'll be asleep by one or so. it'll be fun.

um, it's ELEVEN on a SUNDAY.

i can't believe you won't hang out with me. you don't like me anymore, do you?

it's not that. it's ELEVEN ON A SUNDAY NIGHT.

alright, alright. we're never gonna hang out again, are we?

look, stop it. we're gonna hang out again. but what if i called you with no warning on a sunday night, at ELEVEN, and invited you over?

wait, are you inviting me over?

uh...no.

oh. well, i'd say, "okay. be right there."
....................................

because i forgot that my line of argument won't work here. we ALL know what "come over and watch a movie" means. and he's a guy. a guy with his last name tattooed across him in bold old english letters. i don't know why i bother.

my new fantasy is to sell all my belongings, pack up the cats, and go work at a bar in key west or key largo. who's with me?

first drum lesson on saturday. i first have to go to a music store and pick up some items whose names read like greek. i hope the music store drum people aren't pretentious. because i really need some support picking out my first pair of sticks.

okay, back to my database duties. happy lunes!

short story time

Sweaters and Duct Tape

Once there was Bob. And Bob felt the whole world was against him. Especially since the sweater incident.

It was so bad one day that he strapped duct tape over his nostrils and waited to die.

He walked up the stairs and into the projection booth of the theatre where he worked. Right on the toilet he sat. But he wasn’t dead after fifteen minutes, and since his break was over, he left the little bathroom, walked through the projection booth again, and headed back downstairs to sell popcorn.

“Why’d you spend your break up there, Bobby?” Sally asked.

“I went up there and put tape over my nose so I would die. But it didn’t work,” he told her while he handed a paper bucket of popcorn to a customer and Sally counted out change.

She shoved him. “You’re such a joker, Bob,” she said. “ ‘I put tape over my nose so I would die.’ Good one, Bobby.”

“I thought I could keep my mouth closed. Cuz there wasn’t enough tape for my mouth. Oh well,” Bob said seriously. “I can always try again after work.”

He got another shove. “Cut it out, Bobby,” Sally giggled. “I gotta work, you’re making me laugh too much.”

Bob shrugged and handed over another bucket. Sally kept taking money and handing out change. After about half an hour, the rush was over, and all the customers were tucked into the dark theatres.

“Whew,” Sally exclaimed as she swept the lobby. Bob had a tendency to overstuff the paper buckets, so there was always more popcorn on the floor during his shifts.

Bob sat behind the ticket counter, shoving ticket stubs into envelopes. He finished and tossed the bundles under the counter into a box. Mark would be in the next morning to count them. Bob slumped off the stool and leaned forward against the counter. He played with the little metal flaps of the ticket machine. He pulled back and looked under them, wondering if he could see the tickets inside. “Stupid sweater,” he mumbled to himself.

“Cut it out, weirdo,” Sally said from the other side of the lobby. “Go check the projectors.”

He gave up his post by the ticket machine and trudged back up the stairs. He looked in the bathroom and found his piece of tape still on the floor. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then he checked through all three of the small windows to make sure the movies were in focus and framed correctly against each screen. He sighed after checking the third one and sat down in a random green lawn chair that had been in the booth for as long as he had worked there.

“Poor sweater,” he said as he pulled the tape from his pocket and unstuck it from itself. Patting it back on his nose, he discovered that it wasn’t very sticky anymore.

“What are you doing?” Sally caught him with the grey tape sort of hanging from the tip of his nose. Her arms were crossed.

“I told you before. It’s not sticky enough anymore, though.” Bob stood up and shook the tape off his nose. It landed in his open hand and he stuffed it back into his pocket.

“You’re a wacko, Bob. Anything for a laugh, I guess... Come back downstairs,” she said. “I’m getting lonely.” She slapped his shoulder and led the way to the steps.

An hour later the movies were letting out. A few hundred people streamed out the front doors.

“Goodnight. Thanks for coming,” Bob said over and over. His mind was full of dancing red sweaters while his left hand was in his pocket, fingering the little piece of duct tape. He liked feeling the smooth texture and the bumps of string running through the plastic. A couple of customers commented to each other that it looked like he was playing with himself.

After they had the place cleaned up and all the doors locked, Sally and Bob walked out into the parking lot together.

“So when do you come in again?” asked Sally as she unlocked her car door.

“I’m scheduled for day after tomorrow, but I probably won’t be able to make it,” Bob said, standing between Sally and his own car, which was parked two spaces down from hers.

“Oh, why not? Doctor appointment or something?” Sally looked at Bob from over her open door before she sat down in the driver’s seat.

“I told you already. So if I find some stickier tape, I won’t be able to come in day after tomorrow, or ever.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot, Bobby. You and the duct tape. Good luck with that,” she laughed as she shut her door and started the engine. Sally waved as she backed up her car.

Bob waved, shook his head, then got into his own car and drove the three miles to his parents’ house. He unlocked the door as quietly as he could (his dad was a very light sleeper), and wandered into the kitchen. Mom always left the light on above the stove.

Bob opened both of the junk drawers and rifled around looking for a roll of tape. He found wrapping paper for every imaginable occasion folded up in the second drawer, but no duct tape. A roll of scotch tape greeted him from the first, but the only thing that was good for was sealing up cheap envelopes that didn’t have enough glue on them already. No way was Bob gonna strap that stuff all over his face.

He slammed the second drawer closed and then flinched, waiting for the dogs to yap and his dad to come storming down the stairs. Hearing nothing, he tiptoed up the steps and went to his room.

Bob crawled into bed and stuffed his face into the pillow. His eyes were closed, but he couldn’t sleep. Taking the folded, crinkled duct tape from his pocket, he put it in his mouth and ran his tongue over its smoothness. His mind kept returning to the red sweater.

Kira’s red sweater. She had loaned it to him when they were five and never asked for it back. Bob loved that sweater with its little pearlized pink plastic buttons. He used to ball it up in his arms every night and suck on the top button.

He talked to it when he was very troubled. “Oh KiraSweater,” he’d say, “help me through this bad time. I can’t find my favorite pen and I’m very worried about where it might have gone off to. Thank you.” He kissed it after these sessions and said “thank you” in the same manner church folk cry “Amen”.

The sweater was gone. The nicest thing given to him and by the cutest girl. His mom had to go and ignore the “dry clean only” warning and destroy it in their fifteen-year-old washing machine.

“Dammit,” he mumbled and beat his fists against the mattress. “How can I possibly go on?” If I only had the remnants, he thought. But the trash men took the garbage before his mom even told him there was a sweater problem.

Bob finally tossed and cried himself to sleep around dawn. He slept the whole day away.

Sally greeted him on Tuesday. “Hey, Bob... No luck with the tape, huh?” She smiled and slapped his back.

“My stupid mom only had scotch tape.” Bob nodded his head and shrugged, “What’re you gonna do with that? So I gave up...”

Maybe Sally has a sweater, he thought.

Sally smiled and moved aside so Bob could squeeze past her behind the counter. He filled up a popcorn bucket and handed it to the customer waiting on the other side. Sally took a five dollar bill and counted out change. They both looked up to see Mark walking through the front doors.

“Hey, Mark,” Bob said.

“Hey Bob.” He fumbled around with some packages in his arms. “Can you open this box and stack these rolls on the shelf in the projection booth?”

“Yeah,” Bob replied and took the box. He walked up the stairs and turned into the booth. Bob opened it and reached in; it was too dark to see the contents.

“Damn it all,” Bob grumbled defeatedly as he pulled the first brand new roll of duct tape from the box and put it on the shelf.