Tying knots in the stomach of teenage lovers everywhere.

No, I have not updated in ages, but Time marches forward and I’m stuck on the soft leather of her heels. I feel as though I’ve been keeping a low profile, but this does seem to indicate that there is something out there desperate to get through to me and that’s just not the case. In a world full of political intrigue and high stakes games of war and famine, I haven’t even had the energy to go out for breakfast and have some pancakes.

Between strip clubs and the google-eyed monster of strip poker MC’d by an un-disguised cohort sans the usual mascara, Pride parades and Pride debauchery, leather bars and more hamburgers than I’d care to remember, somehow, for some reason, the summer has settled its choke upon me. No, I have not yet seen Superman’s returning bulge, or Streep’s spin as fashion Gestapo, or even heard Owen Wilson dubbing an animated car with a slightly out-of-alignment front bumper. So in some sense, the summer has yet to truly foist itself upon me, but that yoke is going to tighten, I just know it.

My birthday came and went with such little fanfare I feel as though it didn’t happen, so score one for me, I’m going to be younger than I should for at least another 11 months. There was something primal about spending so much time on my own that weekend, if by primal I can include hours of Stargate SG-1 (Season 7), watching the 24 hour Superman: the Animated Series marathon on Boomerang, and walking in the rain to get iced coffee form Dunkin Donuts, then by all means, call me Mr. Primitive.

There really isn’t much else for me to say, as this isn’t much of a platform for any thoughts I have. I can’t really be bothered trying to telegraph them to you, anyway. I wrote a letter last week in support of some legislation I know nothing about. I was asked to do this for certain reasons that obliged me to comply. I tried to interpret the undertaking and relate it back to myself, but the information I was provided was so thin I really couldn’t, and really couldn’t be bothered. Still, I wrote the letter, attempting to infuse it with a personal sense of expression such that the recipient(s) (were there any?) might feel that the missive originated from at least, by most accounts, a real person. Did I succeed? I have no idea. I am of the opinion that the actions I was asked to support were already accepted and in the pipeline of execution, that this was all just a formality, such is the true nature of politics and civic reality, but I still wonder who read it and if they even cared a little. I mean, I know I didn’t.

Once again I find myself several paragraphs deeper on the page than I had intended. There are few things in life that once removed I actually miss. But there are some. Then there are those things that have been so long gone I rarely think of them unless some odd phrase or visual induces a wavy lined flashback. At those moments I suddenly feel transported and transmuted into whatever mindset I was experiencing at the time. I do like to remember that I once knew less than I do now. At those times there’s a sense of panic, and then abandon. I don’t hang on to tokens of the past, or at least the things I hang on to are not for sentimental reasons. But there are moments, incidents of personal weakness, when a sense of nostalgia for my own history can be rather overwhelming. If nothing else, at the very least the story of my life has kept me somewhat engaged. You may not find it a riveting page turner, but in the end, it’s the only book I’ve got. And yes, I have tried to exchange it for an erotic anthology but the clerk at Border’s was less than accommodating.