1/3 Fewer H's in the word Shhhh

"Love is on top, fucking pain"
- Frederick Seidel

I hate packing a suitcase.  There it sits, it’s great zippered maw open, awaiting my wrinkled trash.  Tomorrow is the day.  One more X on the calendar.  Did you know this Monday was National Best Friend's Day?

Me neither.  But apparently it was.  My question is, what about people whose best friends live in other countries, is there an International Best Friend's Day, or can you celebrate that on the same day as the other?  

Or do you have to pick a best friend in the Nation you're in at the time?  

Or does this holiday mean that we have to be best friends with our country for a whole day?

 "Hey 'Mur'ca, how 'bout I buy you a beer?"

RBI1991Apollo: My National Best Friend is Pakistan

Dmmsqdmn3.1: Shhhhh……... 

Dmmsqdmn3.1: You don’t just blurt something like that out. 

Dmmsqdmn3.1: In front of little girls. 

RBI1991Apollo: Girls?

Dmmsqdmn3.1: Girls or women.

RBI1991Apollo: Little Women? Francis Hodgson Burnett?

Dmmsqdmn3.1: I literally do not care Larry.  

This reservoir has been running on empty for decades.

DMM is out of damns. He hasn't had one damn to give since Bush was reelected.  Or elected for the first time, depending on who you ask. How you ask it.

·         “How would you ask it?”  Someone in the crowd yells without looking up from his phone.

I’m glad you asked.
First, put down you phone.  And second read a book.

I read a book.

Ok a book review.

But it described an author's prose as "neo-Mephistophelian singsong"

Isn’t that nice?

·         “You’re stalling.”  No one is laughing and the clock is ticking.  The suitcase awaits.  You are trying to find a successfully hipster method of measuring and tracking time.

            Remember when you were moving and you read that the neighborhood was “decidedly hipster” and neither of us knew what that meant but we liked the sound of it?  Well, I liked the sound of it.  Turns out it was me.  I was hipster.  I was hipster before there were hipsters.

God is unemployed and, even after the end of the recession, probably, at this point, still unemployable, not getting up off the couch next to a couple two cans of Dr. Pepper.

·         “But God is love,” he says in his best Ben Stein.

Fuck it.  Love is a battlefield.  Fuck it.  John Mayer was right.  So was Gord.  Love is a curse, love is a first, love is as bad as or worse…

But it’s because our hearts are made of fire.

Forget the signs on the wall, forget the prayers.

Close your mouth, stop the rain.  I am the mountain. 

·         You are the radio song. 

Our poor decisions are the road.  Our pasts are burning tires. 

This moment is a city. 

No, this moment is a rodeo.  And now that moment is a rodeo replay.  Not quite eight seconds.

My sadness is the color of the moon.  Your joy is the sun.  I put my sadness on an island, and it’s citizens started emigrating to the city.  Now I am homeless and sleeping on the streets.  I don’t know what is best represented by the streets. 

Who can be sure of anything?  Put down your phone.

Condoms in the outfield.

Condoms in the dugout.

How frangible, youth, on the eve of graduation.  Jump those fences.  Pack your bags.

"The darkness doesn’t descend, and then it descends so quickly it seems to seize you in burly arms. 

I’ve been waiting all night to have this dance. 

Stay, it says. Haven’t touched your drink."
-D.A. Powell