Wed., April 18, 42 A.B.

And Best Regards To Your Impotent Husband

"An optimist is someone who refuses the cigarette offered him at his execution because he's heard that smoking can give you cancer 30
years down the road." - My imaginary friend, Hans

Geez, I woke up sore today.  That's what I get for attempting to be so bloody positive when writing last night's entry without bothering to warm
up first by happily humming in place for awhile or stretching my mind a bit by reading a few lightweight Hallmark cards.

Then again, it's possible that I simply have a type "A" negative personality
and am genetically driven to be snotty and critical long after your
typical work-a-day Grinch has clocked out for the night.

Or maybe it isn't quite genetic.  Maybe my unrequited love for Mary Hartman is just getting the better of me again....

In any case, I don't feel much like being very positive tonight.  And Mary Hartman HAS been on my mind a lot today.  Coincidence?


"It is better to be drunk with loss and to beat the ground than to let the deeper things gradually escape." - Ivy Compton-Burnett

I have no idea who Ivy Compton-Burnett may be, but this quote appeared in my morning paper and I'm beginning to think the bloke may have been onto something.  Having  spent over 20 years attempting to let the deeper things gradually escape without success, I guess I have nothing to lose
by allowing myself to get drunk with loss and beating the ground.


Oh, yeah - as if that's gonna prevent me from feeling sore tomorrow!


This wouldn't be happening if you had never left my screen, Mary.
Couldn't you tell how much I needed you?  Didn't you know how fully I idolized your vacant look, unfashionable wardrobe, and waxy yellow build-up?  Did you really have no idea what effect a pigtailed woman
can have on a teenage boy who grew up believing that Ruth Buzzi in a
hairnet was as good as feminine beauty ever got?

Come back, Mary!  Come back!  If only to late-night cable!!!

*SOB!* ....

Did you know you drove me to create an imaginary female friend as a pathetic substitute for you?  Sylvia is her name.  I love her dearly, and
yet, despite her utter lack of material substance, she's just never been able to match your much greater, irresistibly genuine air of unreality.

Sylvia has been making herself scarce lately.  I believe she suspects
that she'll never be able to compete with you for my affection.  I've tried
to reassure her - I've even had a Hot Line installed between us so that
we may have an open phone connection between us at all times - but...
all I ever hear from her end of the line is the taunting squeaks of her wheelchair wheels.  She's long refused to allow me to oil them...  and now, when I lift the receiver and the red light flashes on her phone to let her know that I'm there, all I hear are those wheels squeaking... squeaking more and more distantly as she rolls herself away from my call....

If you're out there, Mary...  if you happen to read this journal...  feel free
to pop up again on my screen again any time, ok?  Even as a guest on Crossfire...  Even as a briefly seen model in a Rogaine or Depends commercial.  I'll take you any way I can get you, Sweetie.  Just tell me the time and station.

And if you've had your teeth fixed, I'll understand.  Just break it to me gently - ok?


                              Back            Home            Next

                   (©1977-Forever by DJ Birtcher, DJ Birtcher)