Tony and his staff of three-

Your blog is the alpha and the omega. Get well soon.

Heart Attack

Lothario Japan is suffering from a heart attack.

When I walked in, his heart was standing on his forehead, jumping up and down, stabbing him in the eye with a plastic Spork from the hospital food tray.

Who knew hearts could be so downright mean sometimes?

I grabbed the heart, but hearts are slippery.

It hit the floor with a resounding splat (hearts are also noisy,) scurried out the door on its little heart-feet, and ran down the hallway.

I followed it.

My stride was bigger than the hearts’, but hearts are faster, and they excrete a natural liquid agent to trip up their pursuants.

It’s called blood.

So the crocodile-skin shoes that Lothario Japan made me wear were slip-sliding in blood puddles all the way down the hall. You would think that hospital orderlies would be trained to deal with rebellious organs and the like, even ones that decided to become runners, but no. There was no one around to help, as Lothario Japan’s cruel little heart jumped between derelict old people�s legs as they dragged their walkers, fairly oblivious to their below-waist area, as anything of any importance had refused to happen down there in years. So the heart passed undetected, save for little stains a nurse would later ascribe to a bladder infection. There was no one around to help when Lothario Japan�s heart hopped a ride on a cart being pushed by a big black orderly, delivering processed meals to every person on the floor.

I saw where it went. I�m observant like that, I�ve got �pigeon-eye,� as Lothario Japan once said. As far as Lothario Japan was concerned, pigeons were the best-sighted birds on Earth. Try telling him otherwise. Try it.

So my pigeon-eyes spotted the heart nestling itself into a brown plastic bowl full of red Jell-o. Actually, let�s not say Jell-o, because it probably wasn�t, and I can�t risk a lawsuit from the Jell-o people, and neither can the estate of the late Lothario Japan. So let�s just say the heart nestled itself into a brown plastic bowl full of red gelatinous foodstuff. Yes, let�s.

I like red gelatinous foodstuff. You know what my mother used to say?

Something about red gelatinous foodstuff. That�s really all I remember, and she didn�t use those words. But if I could remember it, it would be a good anecdote, and really appropriate and you would kind of smile because your mother said the exact same thing, in different words. And we could all kind of use that sort of sentimentality break, because I�m already several paragraphs into my narrative and I have no idea where I�m going.

But isn�t red gelatinous foodstuff amusing?

Mr. Quentin Sans of room 377-B sure thought so. I could tell, because he had wolfed down half of it by the time my crocodile shoes squeaked bloodily into the room. Here it was, the cardiac ward, where most people are too weak to turn the page of a magazine or slit their wrists, and Mr. Quentin Sans was sitting up in bed, shoveling red gelatinous foodstuff down his gullet, happy as a clam.

My mother used to say that, too. About clams. It was never in the same breath as the red gelatinous foodstuff anecdote. I asked her once why clams where so damn happy, and I used the word damn. She proceeded to tell me it�s because they didn�t get slapped by their mothers for using dirty words. Then she slapped me. Ow.

Lothario Japan used to slap me too, come to think of it. I must have very slappable cheeks. Or maybe I�m just an unmitigated bastard. Who knows.

Mr. Quentin Sans didn�t slap me, or even notice me, as I stood there at the foot of his bed, watching him stab a Spork into Lothario Japan�s heart, and not realizing it. Two Sporks, actually. Served the heart right, I thought. A bowlful of red gelatinous karma. But as he raised the heart to big fat recovering-from-surgery mouth, I had second thoughts. This is the first time more than one thought had hit me in less than a minute, and I had to take a moment to recover. So two thoughts in fifteen seconds plus a recovery moment equals Lothario Japan�s heart in Quentin San�s mouth, about to be chewed. Insubordinate or not, Lothario Japan needed that heart to live. So I did what any law abiding American would do. My mother, too.

I slapped him. The heart went sliding across the floor, finally settling in a corner.

�Hey, what the fuck?� said Quentin Sans. He was awful uppity for a recovering cardiac patient. Before he had completed his expletive, he was sprawled across the floor, legs still on the bed, grasping at the heart in the corner. He probably still thought it was a big piece of fruit or something, and put it in his mouth again, accordingly.

�Who the fuck are you, anyway?� he said in between meaty chunks of Lothario Japan�s heart muscle. Swallowed heart equaled dead Lothario Japan equaled no paycheck. So I had to stop Quentin Sans from swallowing, because I wanted to save Lothario Japan. So I strangled Quentin Sans, because I like money.

I didn�t actually strangle him, much to my money�s dismay. I just wrapped my fingers around his neck enough to keep him from really breathing. Strangling implies I did it long enough to kill him, which I didn�t. The big black orderly nearby was too quick for that.

So I was charged for the attempted murder of Mr. Quentin Sans. Kind of makes me look like an asshole, choking a guy in the hospital. But it was for a good cause, that is, saving the life of Lothario Japan.

Unfortunately, I didn�t even do that. Not to mention no one believes the heart story, so they have me on the murder of Lothario Japan. Not attempted, real successful murder. They say I extracted his heart with a Spork, hid it in a bowl of red gelatinous foodstuff, then tried to kill the person it was fed to. Which makes me look like even more of an asshole.

Don�t use the word �asshole,� though, because I�m in jail for life. Real life jail. And that word is just rubbing it in.

Oh, and it turns out Lothario Japan had never even been to Japan.

What an asshole.

tony’s reading: riley dog

and told me that i was wresting all my weight on my wrist and my arms and thats why i was hurting.

she also said my hands were too far stretched away from my body.

the pain has now made the grand tour from one hand down the arm up the neck down the leg then over to the other hand and down to the leg leaving in its wake a buzzy little reminder of who’s boss and who aint.

my phone didnt stop ringing tonight and thats good, i needed a distraction away from my computer, who ive been addicted to since ’98.

so this is what i need. i need some guest writers.

i have a staff of three. send in your story, and if the staff of three gives it a thumbs up then i’ll post it.

just email me at xxsosaxx@yahoo.com and we’ll see what happens.

go ahead, give it a try!

no, really, try.

tiger woods is always trying to impress me, but i keep telling him to save it for the fairway.

your politics are not as all as interesting as your golf game.

“but i would have thought that you would have liked the fact that i told the reporters that private golf clubs should be allowed to be racist or sexist if they wanted,” he said.

tiger. you’re still a sell out. you work for nike.

“well, you worked for microsoft.”

yeah but i wasn’t a millionaire and microsoft doesn’t have sweat shops paying people a few dollars an hour to make the most expensive tennis shoes in the world.

“i thought you were a capitalist?” tiger woods asked me.

im a left-wing capitalist. i think you should be allowed to earn a living but i don’t think you should exploit people to do it.

“you believe in porn.”

i don’t think that’s exploitive. those are adults who think its okay to get paid to get down.

“i swear, tony pierce, you are just never satisfied, are you?”

tiger, if you are going to charge some kid in oakland $100 for a pair of jordan’s, and nike cant figure out a way to pay the kid in bangladesh $5/hr to make those shoes and still make a profit, then fuck nike, they don’t deserve to exist. maybe they should pay their spokespeople less.

“maybe we’ll just jump to adidas.”

maybe you’re an ass.

“maybe i’ll kick your ass.”

right now, you vest wearing balding freaky piece of hype.

“hows your girl?”

im inbetween girls.

“oh, that’s right.”

we had just finished the easy course at medinah, a private club across the street from my highschool where i attended prom. some of my friends had caddied there in the summers. one of my friends had told me the story of the super bowl shuffle bears playing there and a few of my friends caddied for them.

we had a big tall friend that we gave a terrible nickname to on account of his mild retardation due to the auto accident that he was involved in as a youth.

bear quarterback jim mcmahon, allegedly had our friend stand 200 yards in the fairway and used him as a target.

mcmahon was eerily accurate when properly motivated.

they rode in carts drinking beers golfing making fun of my friend and later tipped him five hundred bucks.

will you stop bouncing that golf ball off your sand wedge, its creepy.

“i can do this all day.”

i know, you’ve been doing it for twenty minutes with one hand in your pocket.

“i am tiger woods.”

hows your girl?

“pain in the ass.”

how so?

“always wants me to take her out. im out all day. i don’t want to go out when im done with my day. i want to chill out.”

does she wear little outfits for you?

“no.”

do you ask?

“no.”

why not?

“it’s disrespectful.”

no way, it’s fun.

“only you can get away with that shit, bro,” tiger said.

for the record, i think private country clubs can have whatever members they want. all whites, all men, all women, whatever.

“thank you. finally.”

Cuz one day there will be a brotha club and it’ll just be brothas and white women.

“i heard that!”

and me and tiger gave each other the secret soul brother power handshake followed by a warm hug and he walked away bouncing that damn golf ball off his wedge

with a brand new “sellout” sticker on the back of his sweater vest.

can’t believe: im winning a poll

the carpel tunnel crept up the right arm and shot down to the toes of my right leg, which is strange because i felt better the second half of the day.

almost like the devil was snaking through my veins, taking a little tour, having a little look-see.

at my desk at work i have a dixie cup full of ice, i have a plastic bag that once held spoons, i put the ice in the spoon bag, use rubberbands, put the bag on my wrist till i cant stand it, then the other wrist. i look like an idiot.

i know at any moment i can be called to have to go out to chase bad guys, fight with them, climb, point a gun out, squeeze the trigger, etc. simple things like hold on to a guy who is running for his life would be impossible, but my workplace is so twisted that because i have no more sick days and because i didn’t *predict* this injury two weeks ago, i cant really call in sick tomorrow, so i do my paperwork, review documents and pray that my phone doesn’t ring.

this month has been a bitch, despite the lies that you read on my site, and others.

the lesson that ive learned is as long as i keep my mouth shut and smile everything’s fine. as soon as i open my mouth and ask for the things i want, logical as they might seem, i will come across as pushy and dickish. this is the fine line men must traverse. be patient too long and you’re considered wimpy. push and you’re too aggressive.

there is a middle ground and sometimes i feel i have found it but when the feedback both verbal and physical says otherwise, rarely is it this punishing.

i love to write and to have my hands taken away from me, even for a little while, is scary as hell.

i asked this hot chick if worse comes to worse would she sit on my lap and dictate for me and she said isn’t there software for that? so, yes, i think i want my hands back, please.

the elbows are buzzing with electricity, not good electricity, like someone hit my funny bone an hour ago and the arm still thinks its funny. the fingers are numb like i should be paralyzed soon, the neck is tight like an acupuncturist missed by just that much.

all i wanted to do the other day was cuddle with someone.

the tougher you are, the luckier you get, the more you want.

im sorry– the tougher i am, the luckier i get, the more i want.

i might not be 108 years old but i feel like im about to blink and im gonna be that age. i say that because i blinked not too long ago and i was no longer 21 and i thought to myself what the hell just happened there. so maybe i am living hard now because i don’t want to sleep through the next phase like i feel like i did in that last one.

im like ten pages away from finishing dot.con which layne is selling at a discounted rate, and i want two, bro, save two for me. and he wrote it so perfectly and smooth and easy that it almost says to you, “you too can write a novel, its not that hard. it wont be as funny, but 45 chapters, a chapter a night give or take for two months, give yourself a few days off, and hand it over to your friends for real editing and poof, novel.”

i like dot con because so many of our friends make appearances and its cool to watch ken nail every single person, most happily axel, os, and charles.

im writing as fast as i can tonight, its about midnight, i just want to write, post, and go to sleep and rest my fingers and body because i never want to have this happen again. i know it’s stress related. i know how weird my body gets when it even the slightest bit of emotion slips in. but still, i have to write to you.

and don’t feel so bad for me. tonight a mysterious hot chick offered me a night of debauchery with her if i shaved my head.

this is a girl who ive been with before, shes super clean. freaky about it, but clean. perfect body, great kisser, great moves, everything you’d hope for.

once she cut me off, way back when, i truly never thought i’d have another shot. thankfully, im always wrong.

so here is another dilemma for the post-modern man. what do you do? this girl is obviously temporarily insane. usually quite intelligent, reserved, and has her wits about her, but now all you have to do is shear your thinning hair off and prepare for the party.

but what they don’t tell you in maxim and playboy and sex in the city is that women are not attracted to men who have sex with women who aren’t their girlfriends.

lets say this very webpage has a female reader who likes the pictures and occasional jokes, and would normally consider possibly maybe hooking up with the alleged author, she might be turned off with the fact that author possibly really does have the wonderful life that is documented therein.

and i say that fucking sucks.

hot babes do it on hbo and they’re heroes. not even that hot of babes, i might add.

but a fella gets some play and instantly hes a manwhore, womanhater, player, user, risk, jerk.

its not fair, ladies, not fair.

and because my imagination is my best friend, and since nothing in here is true anyhow, and since this is no one who any of you know, so dont even bother trying to guess, i ask her, “if i cut off all my hair, will you wear a catholic girl skirt?”

she says yes.

i say, garters?

she says whatever you want.

i ask, will you spend the night?

she says i will spend the night and be super nice to you.

i say, will you laugh at my bald head?

she says, i will love your bald head, i love bald heads.

i say, can i think of some other things that i might want that night?

she says, sure, make a little list and i’ll tell you whats okay.

and instantly i had enough strength to write to you and now i think im done for the night.

four shout outs:

i got some email today and in it there was a letter from this chick who is jailbait and wants me to link her to my site and im always impressed when young girls put together web sites that have decent content, great design, and pretty original style. so keep rocking, teresa.

somehow i came across this site which is the polar opposite in design, and a lot of the things that the old fogies say is wrong with the web but something about it totally appeals to me. i get a good feeling that i know parts of the true life of a real person, and i like that feeling. rock on, punk munkie.

then theres meesh, who i like a lot, who id drink with if she lived near here, and who im scared to meet because im sure she wouldnt like me in person. i loved what she wrote in the comments of yesterday’s post but i really love what she wrote in her blog about her family and growing up. meesh is another who wrote me else i would have never known her. for that im very grateful.

im also very grateful for everyone who has permalinked me. because im not really on the computer much, i haven’t been able to compile all the people who have linked me, but know that i want to link you back on the column on the left, so if you want me to return the love, email me and when im all better i’ll get it together.

salivating over: eric neel living every man’s fantasy, and getting paid for it.

which couldn’t be further from the truth.

ashley, baby, sweetheart, of course i love you. i love you so much im typing to you despite having terrible carpel tunnel. my wrist looks like that giraffe. im only going to post one thing today and this is it. of course i love you ashley.

sometimes love means letting go. don’t ask me to explain it because im not sure i totally understand it.

but i do understand the benefit of laying on your back with someone your own age, relatively, holding hands, discovering new music and old gems. ashley you’re twenty. im 108. you need to find a guy who’s also twenty.

you two need to listen to led zep until the sun comes up, pink floyd, skynyrd, the doors, the dead’s american beauty, the clash, the police, motorhead, the ramones, the talking heads, santana, bob marley, dylan, ac/dc, van halen, boston, dio, sabbath, priest, maiden, yes, classic rock. and not the greatest hits, but the full albums completely.

you need to be going to college and read shakespeare, hopkins, faulkner, hemingway, milton, joyce, dickinson, twain, tennyson, vonnegut, tolstoy, yes, classic rock.

don’t be fooled by guys who have great sex with you. the sex will always be great.

don’t be fooled by guys who can write well. it just means that when they’re mad at you you’ll get the most hateful terrible emails. you deserve better.

don’t be fooled by guys who are terribly handsome, or charming, or cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce. those guys, especially in LA are a dime a dozen.

what you need is a nerdy guy who’d do anything for you. who would leave you presents at your door and make web sites for you in your image: beautiful and grand, lyrical and edgy. you need a geek who would wait years for you, secretly, despite his own welfare. you need someone who wont make fun of the bad music kids these days love.

instead of trolling the skate parks and beaches, you should sit outside a cyber cafe or an engineering department, browse through the aisles of fry’s electronics, become a member of the battery club at radio shack.

go geek, not greek.

your whole life you’re going to be pursued and eventually conquered and dominated by a variety of well-meaning men, take this opportunity to turn the tables and you be the one who does the corruption. and trust me when i tell you that you’ve got all the tools.

go to tower records and smile at the boys with the dyed hair and the unoriginal punk rock wear, but give your number to the guy in the back wearing the weezer tshirt who would never think that in a million years you’d say hi to him.

then get his number, tell him to ride his scooter over, kiss his neck, watch him shake, get him stoned, put in jane’s addiction, and go where the music takes you.

maybe the rest of the good people who read this page will be kind enough to leave comments here with their suggestions since i could be wrong. and since i cant type another word.

tres happy: at the tres producers

allen iverson is one of the top three basketball players in the nba. the order probably goes, shaq, kobe, allen.

all his life allen has been a rough neck drug taking outlaw rebel who lives his life as recklessly off the court as on.

how a man six feet tall can have a napolean complex is beyond me, but if you look at his behavior, and the fact that most of his peers are six to fourteen inches taller than him might explain some of it, but the bottom line is he’s a punk rock superstar.

a few days ago it became obvious to the 76er shooting guard that this morning he was going to be arrested for busting through an apartment with a gun while looking for his wife.

you think he could have combed his hair.

but allen keeps it real and i might be a sarcastic person most of the time in here, but i like that.

he didn’t soar to the top of the nba by playing someone else’s game, or copping someone else’s style. he’s his own man, full of complexities, oddities, viciousness, rage, and pure love of his terribly shy momma and little daughter.

he’s also one of those young black men who has a chip on his shoulder and it will never go away.

allen is a superstar and in philly where he is now in the slam awaiting the wheels of justice to move, he’s a deity.

and in the prison that he is sitting in, he is bigger than a god.

which just makes me wonder, what the fuck is up with your hair?

did the coppers unbraid the corn rows? did he party all night and never get around to having his cousin fix him up good? was the hair dresser busy at the phillies game last night?

and the eyes.

allen, we all know you’re a baller. and a stoner. and a leader. ive never been to jail as an inmate, ive only been a visitor, but i cannot imagine going through the process of being booked, deloused, processed, etc. while baked.

i know guys like snoop dogg don’t like to do anything while not under the influence, but if you really are a marijuana connoisseur, and you’re bigger than God in the slam, don’t you think theres going to be a nice sack of weed waiting for you and a basket of flowers from the fellas in the cell block down the way?

i know if i was allen iverson i would expect that shit and i would be one pissed off lil all star mvp if all of that wasnt laid out real nice on my cot right next to the silver commode.

true, his stay will probably be short. just time enough to get arraigned and bailed out. but allen has a chance to be with an element that, despite what the blatantly racist tv pundits will kid about, he does not interface with on the regular.

petty crooks, tax evaders, money launderers, cocaine middle men will break bread with him today. nobody is expecting a sermon of, “shape up, brothas, thats what im fixin to do.” but they’ll want to talk basketball. they’ll want to talk about playing against mj. they’ll want to talk about lots of stuff.

and the way allen iverson will be with these other fallen angels will touch them in ways that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.

it might even change them for the better.

so you know the cops are going to unbraid your braids. and you know the brothas will braid it up good for you. and the only thing better than a jailhouse tattoo is a jailhouse hairdo, so why didn’t you show up prepared, awake, and alert, AI?

keeping it real?

no.

maybe because deep down you’re just a selfish little bitch concerned with you and you only.

you can storm through a house waving a gun talking shit because you know how to drive the lane spin a 360 and sink a fallaway off the glass.

cut you and you dont bleed.

and still that chip on your shoulder is so big that you cant see how deeply you could touch others who need to be touched.

so concerned with your own self you don’t see how living by example, if only for a day or two, no matter where you lay your nappy head, could send the right man down the right path. how every guy who passes by your cell once you’re gone will think, nba’s finest was right there. this hell hole isn’t so hellish after all. in fact this little nook is pretty special.

so next time you find yourself in prison, #3, comb your fucking hair, and smile for the birdie. the man hates it when we smile.

my kingdom for one strong black man with an attitude and a shred of class

up in here.

loving the link love from all, especially: doc searls and the daily pundit

flaming lips, the vines, robert plant

in the basement of the keeneyville grade school in the chicago suburb of mundelion, Illinois.

even though the boys were always ending up in blood curdling school yard brawls, they were best of friends to the curious amazement of anyone who saw them fight.

byrn was a short boy who was always coming to school beaten and bruised most thought at the hands of sonny, who seemed to feel no pain, but it wasn’t true. he got his ass kicked by everyone. an odd lad, he would fight with all sorts of people. but his favorite sparring partner was the ever smiling, eternally up-beat sonny i. lavista.

“those two will either be the finest boxers to come from this town, or they’ll be dead before high school,” principal collins said to herself as she pulled back the stylish curtains of her office which over looked the west end of the playground.

mundelion, famous for its youth boxing league did not discourage pugilism at any age, due in part to the fact that a healthy portion of the citizenry were either first generation immigrants raised on a brand of unspoken self reliance or they were simply the twisted offspring of one of the many famous organized crime families who had relocated from nearby chicago.

bryn and sonny belonged to neither of these groups. they were merely two young boys who loved to fight and loved each others company.

bryn, of course, had a secret.

he was from another time.

naturally.

sent to earth specifically to adjust the tiny devices covertly placed into the heads of dozens of neighborhood kids in the forgotten town, bryn was the last child on his list, and was unfortunately the most difficult.

the chip wouldnt snap in.

so he tried to beat it into place.

everywhere they went, sonny and bryn took turns slapping and wrestling and brawling and scratching and cursing and threatening and, eventually, bleeding and being broken up.

only bryn knew the motivation behind the violence but sonny only wanted to stop the headaches, which were never-ending and excruciating.

“i know you have terrible pains,” bryn told sonny that first time they met in the basement sorting pints of milk.

“how do you know that?” sonny asked, stopping, still holding a chocolate milk that looked like a little house.

“cuz i used to have them too,” bryn lied.

and that’s when they first started to brawl. not out of hatred or fun but necessity. bryn did his best to beat the tiny chip into place so that sonny could see what he was chosen to see and so that bryn could complete his visit and go back to a time when things were simpler and everyone had flying cars and a man could buy a pair of concert tickets from a variety of sources at a nominal fee.

but bryn failed day after day, month after month, and as time went on it became obvious to the time traveler that this young fellow might not ever get it together and might indeed need to be disposed. sonny was, however, certainly learning how to take a punch.

one day as the boys were playing an innocent game of baseball in the street a happy little accident occurred.

the hardball that sonny pitched was hit squarely by bryn and the ball sunk into sonny’s forehead and bounced away knocking the youth right on his back.

he awoke to a world of colors and symbols, numbers and characters.

“are you ok,” bryn asked.

“no, not at all,” sonny winced.

“how many fingers do you see?” bryn said holding up his middle finger.

“twelve. thirteen maybe.” sonny said, blinking and eventually gave up and kept his eyes closed.

bryn popped him a good one right on the nose. and then another. and then one more.

“it’s like ive got a screw loose,” sonny said.

“no, quite the contrary, friend. finally the screw is in place. open your eyes.”

sonny did as he was told and the world was back in focus and he smiled. bryn smiled back and the sudden change of colors and spinning of numbers around his violent friend nearly blinded poor sonny with its unusual light.

he promptly passed out.

naturally.

laughing at: oliver’s anna exclusive

why don’t you ever say any bad things about yourself? You talk about asswipes, you sound like an asswipe.”

never one to turn down a request, crude as they may be, here goes my secret admirer.

heres all the bad things i can write about myself in four minutes. ready? set? go

watches sports constantly, likes strip clubs, smokes a pipe, not a crack pipe suckers, christian minister, slow safe driver, safe sexpert, talks dirty, on the computer a lot, doesn’t eat much, doesn’t sleep much, likes the bed, contradictory as hell, cheap, mad slacker, will probably say something wrong to your mother, laughs at his own jokes constantly, reads too many magazine, likes to make out all day, bad cook, messy as hell, wants 8 kids, not motivated at all by money, thinks he’s destined to burn in h e double hockey sticks, compliments way too much, doesn’t speak french well, doesn’t like to do the dishes, homebody, eats a lot of pie, horrible memory, lucky in lust, reads poetry, watches hella tv, will call you on your shit, terrible memory, bad dresser, likes to drink, tons of friends, hates the phone, will never divorce you, thinning hair, hates the cold, has no problem with porn, likes bikinis with prints designed with the image of revolutionary Che Guevara.

happy, giselle?

but to answer your first question. its my belief that the devil lies hidden in the part of your brain that tells you that all those things are bad. and they’re what’s keeping you from what you want in your life.

as if the devil was going to be dressed as a pretty girl, or wear a red suit and twirl his tail and knock at your door with a see through briefcase of hundreds, a box of acid laced sugar cubes and the dallas cowboy cheerleaders.

some might say that the devil isn’t that creative. i say he doesn’t need to be. the list of things that freak us out are so basic and predictable all the guy has to do is start with your face your ass your hair and your gut and rinse and repeat. if he really needs to get at you he can remind you how little money you have in savings, that your girl might be thinking of leaving you, and how closer you are to death.

don’t kid yourself into thinking hes not there, acknowledge him, but pay him no mind.

be worried if you cant hear him.

be terrified if you believe a word.

envious of: bitchen’s visit to fenway