I got fifty-nine submissions for this week, but unfortunately they were all written in invisible ink (hahahahahaha), so I’m afraid it’s just me. I hope you enjoy it!

The topic for next week is: a well.

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The Morning After
- Ahniwa Ferrari

Brandon woke up slowly, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time, blinking at the bits of crust rubbing against the corners of his eyes. Finally he threw off the covers, stumbled naked into the kitchen, and opened cupboards to search for coffee. He found some beans, ground them, and yawned as he filled the coffee pot with water to pour into the machine. His eyes drooped a bit, his nose felt all snotty, and he tried to remember what he had done the night before.

The smell of coffee made him smile a bit. He poured himself a cup before the pot was done brewing, making coffee drip directly onto the heating-surface and give off an angry, burnt smell. Some splashed onto his foot, and he shook it off as he and his coffee mug made their way into the bathroom to take a shower.

It took two minutes for the water to get hot, which was ironically enough time for his coffee to cool down enough for him to drink. When he stepped into the shower, he got scalded, and he cursed as many things as he could think of before he got the temperature right. He leaned against the wall of the shower so that the showerhead was right over him, and let the water make rivers down the creases in his skin.

Famously groggy in the mornings, he felt awake after twenty minutes in the hot spray, and turning the water off he stepped out of the shower and reached for his towel. He dried his hair and waited for the steam to let go of the mirror so he could brush it to a fairly reasonable level of control. It wasn’t until the mirror cleared that he remembered; everything that had happened the night before, the week leading up to it, thinking if he just fell asleep he’d wake up and it would all have been a bad dream. But he was awake now – he was fairly sure of it – and it hadn’t been a dream after all.

He glared at the mirror for eight minutes and thirty-one seconds exactly, counting in his head superstitiously, but it did no good. Finally he grunted, turned out of the bathroom and back down the hall, muttered, “Fucking invisible…” as though it were something that might happen to anyone at any moment, and went back to bed.

… shoot first and ask questions later.

I watched The Boondock Saints for the first time the other night. I’d been avoiding it because of all the 1337 D3WdZ who said how awesome it was. I trust not the ‘leet doods. But then, some movies are enjoyable to many different kinds of viewers, doods and modest geniuses alike. Chances are (and wouldn’t it be ironic) that geniuses is not actually the correct word. I’m too lazy to check. The title for this post is in honor of the autistic bar-tender, for whom I mourn when he is shot, and all his mixed idioms.

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There’s a beautiful woman in my life now, with whom I connect amazingly well. This last week we’ve spent nearly every free moment together, without a trace of boredom or dischord. We’ve admitted openly that we’re completely smitten with each other, and have both acknowledged that we have an uncommon bond, one which very much entices the fatalist in me. Unfortunately, and perhaps I should say, of course, there are complications. I’ve a knack for complications, it seems. And in this case, the least of which is my moving to Montreal in the Fall. Funny, isn’t it?

I won’t get into particulars. My theory is that no relationship is perfect, and despite the fact that our connection honestly seems to be, chance has tossed in factors that make things tricky. So what to do? It’s only been a short while, so I figure it’s best to take things slowly, and see if maybe some of these snags work themselves out on their own, or with minimal tweaking. Which will leave others that will require care and attention. Who knows what the future holds? Each passing moment, and each day that goes by, I feel a little luckier to be alive.

My friends are alternately supportive and critical, and when they start to question me my response is: There may be the “one true love” out there; there are probably a few people, at least, that are extraordinarily compatible with you, but there are certainly not millions of them. When an opportunity comes along in such a way that it seems right and good and meant to be, to be put off by “minor” details is a matter of cheating yourself.

Which is not to say it will work out, necessarily, but that it is definately worth the effort. This is a brand new adventure.

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Supposedly we’re performing our “Tainted Love” routine on Tuesday. I say “supposedly” because I highly doubt that we’re actually prepared to do so (though I could probably muddle through it today, there are seven other people involved), and pushing back the date may be the best recourse to avoid someone’s head getting split open during a botched back-flip. Yes, swing dancing: fun AND dangerous.

Aside from that, I’ve been dancing my ass off even more than before, thanks to having a fantastic dance partner that loves to learn new things as much as I do. We lindy, we shag (dance *cough cough*), we salsa, we balboa, we charleston, we may learn tap, we sway (what I like to call blues dancing), and we have a rockin’ good time. My legs are getting tough, my arms are getting sore, and I tend to laugh a lot. Dance is a good thing, go try some.

In parting, one last bit of autistic Boondock wisdom:

“If you can’t get out of the kitchen …
… don’t cross the road.”