Today is Friday. I can almost hear people simultaneously shout out, “It’s the weekend baby!” Except, I am working all weekend and don’t call me baby. I can’t seem to shake off this sore throat. The same sore throat that ruined my birthday on Wednesday and has been fueling this ridiculous fever and listlessness. Where is Oprah when you really need her?
I’m not feeling sorry for myself but I did change my blog theme to ‘Greyzed’ because it described itself as ‘dark and grungy.’ Do the math.

Sometimes music helps.

Now, read this poem by Charles Bukowski.

I made a mistake.
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue panties
and showed them to her and
asked “are these yours?”
and she looked and said,
“no, those belong to a dog.”
she left after that and I haven’t seen
her since. she’s not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.

What is wrong with me? Nothing. It’s a virus. I’ll live. Men can be such miserable bastards when we’re sick. Besides, the Football World Cup starts exactly one week from today. Big reason to smile šŸ™‚

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