What Can Flowers Say That Handcuffs Can't?

Well, well, well, it's been awhile, hasn't it my friends? (I'm referring, of course, to the masses I imagine reading my all too indulgent entries) Well fear not, I've once again found myself depressed long enough to scrape some sort of inspiration from the underside of my colon, all for you dear reader, all for you. And now, w/only another minute's hesitation...........

We begin this tale about three weeks ago, and seeing as most of my behaviour since then can be reduced, if not entirely blamed, on the severe romantic shit-kicking I received that Thursday evening, that strikes me as good a place as any to start.

It was Thursday morning when the aforementioned kicker of shit finished getting dressed, leaned over to give me a kiss, professed her love and left for work. My day, like most of the week leading up to this particular one was spent doing housework, patching holes in the drywall, hanging photos, taking down blinds, setting up entertainment systems, etc. But when 5 o'clock strutted by, there was I, still alone in the house. After deciding to wait for my wonderful girlfriend to get home before once again cooking dinner, I settled down for an early evening nap. Startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and the high pitched whine of heavy machinery screeching "Wake up!", I took firm hold of my bearings and found an angry, and quite possibly drunk, cohabitant explaining expletively how we were once again finished.

Now, having rehearsed this part of the the play at least once every two weeks for the last seven months, I was finally told that there would be no encore this time. Having grabbed most of my things, I was about to leave when she offered to drive me where ever I needed to go. I declined on the grounds that there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable by sitting next to her and considering she hadn't actually said anything since my rude awakening except: "I can't deal with this" and "Can I drive you?", I failed to see the point in not listening to someone not talk.

On Friday I received a call from my personal Delilah. Still in the fetal position I took up immediately upon getting home from work, I cradled the phone to my newly shaved noggin and asked what she wanted to do to me now. What I got still makes me laugh, it was an apology for her timing in this matter. Not for the heartbreak, the stomach pains, or the crying myself to sleep, but for her timing. Don't be so hard on yourself baby, I said, you waited until I moved your apartment, set everything up in your new place, and only a few hours after saying you love me. Your timing was spot fuckin' on!!

Saturday night came, as it so often does, pulled in a flaming chariot by whores on horseback.

To the bar to drown the image of her in the cheapest pint available, seemed to me the best course of action, and luckily enough, I found a nice little 19 yr old to help ease the pain in my balls, if not the one in my heart.

Things went mostly the same until Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Why not? Wednesday happened to be payday and depression and a thousand dollars do not go hand in hand. Well they might, but it's not a slow romantic stroll on the beach, it's more of an old school knife fight, combatants lashed together at the wrist and neither victorious.

I called in sick for work the next day, explaining that I had spent most of the morning strapped to the toilet and aiming carefully for the bathtub. All I needed was a doctor's note I was told. Well that should be no problem for someone lacking Alberta Health Care, doncha think?

Anyway, that day I ended up chatting with someone who found my profile info funny:

I'm a 6 ft tall, 29 yr old musician, working as a bartender, who spends his off time talking to walls, sleeping in books and used coffee filters, tracking the elusive Quadraduck, and smelling the backs of postage stamps. I'm just looking for a nice girl that will let me duct tape her to the wall, and test her for food allergies. Hmmm perhaps that's a little much. How about someone who doesn't bug me? Too general perhaps.... hmmmm, let's try this: I'm looking for people that are a little less than normal, a little more than interesting, and somewhere between a bus and the colour orange.

She responded to this by telling me that she's allergic to chocolate.

My kinda grrl!!

We made a date to grab a beer and I went to buy some sort of a greeting gift. Hmmm... what would someone with a similar sense of humour appreciate? Flowers are right out, too much money to spend on someone I don't know. Her nickname is Twinkle, maybe I should get some glow in the dark stars for her to look at while she's on her back? Naw, that's just childish and crude. What else is there here at the dollar store? AHA!!!!! Handcuffs!!! Perfect.

Walking into the dark, dank, disheveled local, she stood out immediately. Tall brunette, great body. This is gonna be good. Grabbing a table and a couple pints of Grasshopper, we started chatting. Laughs all around, good times to be had and handcuffs to be given, I did just that.

Perfect, she said, what can flowers say that handcuffs can't?

Perfect indeed, that is until I found the wheels on the bottom of the chairs. How did I find them? Well, you may already have an idea, but let me enlighten you. Better yet, let me impart some free advice: don't lean backwards in a chair on wheels.

Things kinda went downhill after that.

The bartender cut me off, and girly suggested I get a cab. This would all be hysterically entertaining if I had been drunk, but as I'd only had a pint and a half, sad is probably a better description.

I'm sure there are other dangerous and debaucherous things that have happened over the course of three weeks, but I've either decided to not include them or they happen to be too mentally scarring and I've simply blocked them out. Whatever the case, that's it for now.

Take care all,

Fishbait