From 100 Words, April 2004

April 2, 2004
My left hand smells like your perfume. I have no clue why. I wash it five or six times a day. But when I sink my head into my palm, there’s that goddamn aroma again. I can’t sit still. I get up and pace, up and down the L car. I’ve been torn to hamburger by this unreciprocated crush. It turned on me like a demoralized guard dog. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. When we share oxygen, I’m happy. When you’re out of sight, I smell you everywhere. Your cigarettes, your sex, and that maddening girly perfume.

April 3, 2004
Punk Kid is clearly fucked up on something. Punk Kid asks if he can come over to Ripped Hose Girl’s place. Ripped Hose Girl believes this would be awkward. Punk Kid addresses Pink Fishnets. Pink Fishnets: “Just because we talked at the bus stop doesn’t mean we have to keep the conversation going.” Punk Kid offers Pink Fishnets 20 bucks if she’ll let him sniff her feet. She accepts. Punk Kid: “Sooo bad… meaning good.” Pink Fishnets offers the 20 back if Punk Kid will use her foot as a phone. Punk Kid accepts. “Hello?” The bus stops. They scatter.

April 5, 2004
“IF IT CAME TO THAT.” I’d strip down, turn the shower on full tilt and place the gun on the soapdish. I’d crank up the hot water, steamy as I wanted it. I’d feel it soak in my hair and skin, hear it hit the floor. Stand there and ponder. Let it blast my face and rinse out my eyes. Fog up the mirror. Steam up this li’l houseboat cabin apartment. Stand there until my fingertips shriveled. Until the hot water ran out. Then pick up the gun and stick the barrel in my mouth. Maybe puke out the memories.

April 12, 2004
I met Little John at the Village Tap. He described, to an audience of three or four, the Donut Game. Something he did in the navy. A group of enlisted men would jerk off toward a donut, and the last one to cum would eat the donut. I saw him again on the train the next day, tweaked out of his skull, headed for a drug test. He said I looked like I needed a vacation. Gave me a brochure for a hostel in Boulder. Told me to tell them I know Little John, the Russian Jew from the navy.

April 22, 2004
You seem like you’re worn a bit thin. Tired. Disconnected. You’re yawning a lot. Yawning more than talking. Outside of your aggressive flirtation with the smug bartender, you don’t seem invested in anything. You give me the balance of your last beer. I walk you to your car. Then I walk back over the bridge. I have some more beer at my neighborhood tavern. When it closes, the barkeep and I hit two 4 AM joints. I’m pants-pissing drunk, ranting and rambling. I wish you were here. You’re gone. I amble home, prepare some food, and puke my guts out.

-Emerson Dameron