I'm jetting for reals. Unlike George Costanza, I missed the appropriate mark to make an exit. I've even tried once before. Not out like giveaway all my stuff and emulate Greg Louganis off the fire-escape. Just out.

You see, this morning, I woke up with a loaf of bread.

I dreamt all night that I was wrestling with these eyeless, shapeless things, that threw me into a burlap sack and strolled, dragging me around. There were sleeping kittens in the bag, and I had claws that were forced to cut into my toes and fingers by being so constrained. The kittens were nonplussed.

Anyway, I woke this morning, and I was gingerly cradling the moist, plastic-covered surface of an unsmooshed loaf of 7-grain bread which I had placed in the freezer the night before.

I took a few minutes brushing my teeth while staring at the recessed veins on my too-skinny arms, and gazing at this frothy-mouthed stranger, made more strange by the 6 weeks of beard growth and the recent thickenings across my brow that have made my too-small eyes even beadier.

That's when I showed up. The younger - yet eternal the way Jesus Christ is eternally 33 or whatever - me. He shows up from time to time: as of yet unaffected by cigarette smoking and not ashamed to wear a t-shirt. We had a heart to heart perched on the side of the tub as I chewed more than brushed with the bristles.

We agreed that it was time to split: He's got more fulfilling alternate lives to live. He advised that if I were to continue along the same path as I am now, I would be having the same conversation with future me as he was having with me, his future him as we had this morning.

" In fact," I told myself," If you think you're ugly and unimpressive to you 7 years ago today, I can guarantee you that 7 years from now you will be incomprehensibly grotesque to the barely countenanced me that I found today compared to us hitherto."

I asked him if it would be an illegal act of pedophilia if I were to roll my fingertips along his stomach not yet weathered by a thousand fast-food meals.

He was sort of freaked out by this proposition.

"For old times' sake?" I pleaded.

...

"Merely nostalgia, no lasciviousness, I promise."

He demurred.

"Henrik Ibsen stroked out and suffered from aphasic neuralgia in his old age." he remarked

"I don't even know what that means." I replied

He just sort of looked sad-eyed, excused himself and left.

***

Remember that guy who delivered Tacos instead of the mail on The State? That's me. They were really good tacos, but they weren't the mail.

And the homeowner, he really liked the tacos, they were some of the best tacos he'd ever had. But, he needs the mail.

Remember Robin William's character in "Deconstructing Harry?" That's me too, I think, I'm sort of fuzzy about it, but I can identify with it as an extremely truncated reflection of myself

Or at least where I'm heading.

xmx remarked the other day that she wouldn't miss the fact that I was constantly tearing her shit down (Not the mini-flame wars we had here, which were orchestrateed and tittered about over AIM) My first reaction was, this just isn't true - at least intentionally.

She's a remarkable writer with a good ear, and tight stylistic control, even when she's belting out 2000 words a day for a novel-in-a-month timed-test frenzy.

But looking back, she would bring up an idea, or something, and I would try to relate to it. And my only way of relating to it was through threadbare, trite cliches, or comparisons to just, something I had associated in my head which I felt compelled to offer believing that merely saying that something was a good idea would be rude.

I'm glad, though, that, whatever I'm doing now, I don't really have that power over her anymore. It's too much for one person to have over another. It's a leeching, horrible power to have.

But, that's how one relates to things when one is a soul-less husk - through cliches.

To her it seemed insulting, demeaning, or competitive. I was only trying to relate, or cling, or set in some more clinging hooks, or cling, just extremely poorly:

"I like your stuff, so, therefore you must like me."

But in the meantime I lost not soul like spiritus - soul like- anima. Not aenima like tool. anima like anima.

When I'm fairly honest with myself, I realize that this condition has been fairly persistent throughout my past. The alpha of it all somewhat an equivalent to that f-ing push mower, that's a g-d cocktease on like the hundreth pull on the starter cord - and it turns over once, twice, three, and, and, put, put, put, farrrtttttttttttttttt, dead.

Someone posted here about how she was dating a 36 year old guy or something, and how she felt like she had missed the best years of his life, and I'm thinking to myself, shit. If these are the best years of my life. Life is not worth the experience.

Hell, I thought I was coming here(Chicago) to get it back - like a less-attractive Spike returning to the Middle East or whereever - or at least establish a gestalt to understand my past. Only instead of a demon-god, and a battery of American-Gladiator style tests, I found a pile of steel and glass, squat, quarried rock, and everyone in black, expensively coiffed, and uninterested (except for the Irish work-permit students(cf. June two years ago, here) in helping a fat and stupid 23 year old forget mercy humpe and find true happiness - which doesn't exist, except when offered in the outstretched palm of satanus or the oliginous, febrile melodies of Santana.

Anyway, I digress.

Soulessness, directionlessness, feelings of directionlessness driftingness ness are out, as well as these ridiculous Jeremiads to myself in a public place (this).

Something like determination is in. Although, that's a fucking queer way of putting it. Something like, remembering and keeping promises to myself is in. Although I'm sure I'll fuck it up like the Mormons and their proxy baptisms: poking around in things that aren't mine to poke around in, or just making shit up in the first place.

But, the inner'net is out. I'm schizophrenic enough thank you very much DARPA. And my attention span has shrunk even below the levels required to destroy bowser 8 times in a row or infiltrate 7th heaven.

Like tweedy said,

"not forever, just for now. not forevvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvverrrrrrrr just for today"

So, Josh, please DON'T turn my head off. Not that you would. But, like,Cricket didn't use her head for 2 years, and other people take sabbaticals, too, when was the last time we heard from Mark or Neal S.? {whine}

I'll be back someday, probably not until this summer, and well, most probably I'll be indistinguishable from what came before.

But between then and now, I want to straddle something 750 and stripped down bare, flail the demons out of myself until the residue of bullshit evanesces and then their hirsine, beaked mouths have a good clearance to exposed, pale, corpse-white me.

And maybe save my family from a sinking battleship...

So, sayonara, Killoggers. Refreshments are in the back. It was Good to Hear from You, Keep Coming Back, and Hang In There, oh and Work Your Committments, because it's important.

I'll be on AIM for a few more days, and at the cell-phone for about a week more: 773-459-6029. That'll be gone come next Wednesday.

After that snail mail at 505 West Belmont Apt 5-O, Chicago, IL 60657. And after that... And after that, profit.

Enjoy the rest of winter, spring, and summer. Maybe when I return I'll have some more big words, and a new lease on hate.