Long story short, it's the short story.
I'm not in love but I've got the hots.
The hots for...I've got the hots for...
Seems funny to me to have the hots...
It's like, I've got the burns...
I feel like it's carpet burn on your bum.
Bum diggiddy. Dam dam.
Foo Faa,
Hee ha,
See ya,
Woopla.

An irritation.

And sometimes the things that shouldn't make sense make the most sense of all.
Senseless, I can't feel anything. Well I guess that's not so bad...it only involves one on my senses.
I've got 4 more to keep me afloat.

Please sir, can I have some more?
Ollie. Twist.
Twister.
Heather something.
No, it's something else...
uh, what's her name
In that show with Paul something.
Oh, this is gonna piss me off.

Uh, Heather Graham is the other one with the boobies in studio 54.
Helen Hunt, and there it is.
Now, the other guy in twister...
Dennis Quaid is not it. I can see his face, almost hear his voice....
Rodger. Def. not, but' that's all i got right now.
The bad guy in twister is the dude from the Princess bride.
Good flick.
Back then.
Back then it was a good flick. And now we have more complex patterns forming, sentences.
Man, I can't remember anything right now.
Maybe I''m sutpid, maybe I'm dumming down.
Maybe something else is on my mind and it's distracting me.

Ah, an interesting prospect. What could be the distraction?
I know, it's a girl. It's a married girl.
An engaged married girl that isn't married yet but I'm invited to her wedding.
Sounds like a romantic comedy.
Sounds like I've got to work on my British accent for this to work.
And I've got to get a lot cuter.
More handsome.
No, I'm handsome, just not in the British hunk in my bunk sort of way.
So I have to work on my angle.
This whole I'm an artist thing only goes so far.
Women want the moeny, they want the stabiity, they want the future prospect.
Not all women of course, but I'm not talking abut you right noe, I'm talking about me.

Me me me me me me me me.
I wished that me spelled backwards would spell something cooler than EM.
WHat's "em" stand for? Maybe it stands for something, and maybe it stands for something cool.
Luckily, we have wikipedia, so I could find out.
I should.
I should go now to Wikipedia and type in my search, and find out if it means something.
But I'm not going to.
My kids will.
My kids will probably think it and wikipedia will launch all by itself and give them info on the "em" in a side window.
I'm too lazy and the mystery is more exciting.

Technology pisses me off. Only when it doesn't work of course.
When it workds it makes life easier. When it doesn't it ignites a burning sensation deep within.
ANd now we have two references to burning in one text.
Perhaps there is a theme developing.

I guess I should mention burning in hell. Not only cuz it's a natural development but also because it's a keyword that might help something or someone find this text at some point.
And, it's a more concrete reference.
References available upon request.
Only if you do request them, i'll have to shit around and call people and make some up.
And then they'll be briefed and only then will they be available.

At your disposal.
Disposable income.
I don't even know what that means.
The argentine waiter then takes the time to say what he said again, only slower.
And I interrupt because no, that's not what I meant... i understand what it means literally, I say, I just don't know what it's like.
Don't take it so literal.
Or I will literally bash your head in.

Oh, an aggressive side.
I didn't want to show it, but it came out.
It's a trait, it's an instinct, it's a way of life.
But being aggressive is akin to having a temper tantrum.
Because you're mad and you know you're right, and everybody should know how right you are.
But they don't. And you look silly now cuz your angry and you're turing bright red.

I turn red easily and I hate it.
Not only cuz of tantrums but also cuz that's the way I was born.
I love myself and who I am but I feel a strange discord between my inner and outer existence.
My profile never ceases to amaze me.
I was once described as tall and skinny with big ears and a prominent nose.
And that about sums it up.
And I'm not really going to sit here and feel sorry for myself.

Do it on your own time.

Do it.

Doing it.

I was doing this girl.
Oh, how vulgar.
I was banging this chick.
Oh, how crude.
I was munching on a Vagina...
And now you've overstepped the boundaries of good taste.

What tastes good.
Vagina doesn't taste good to me.
But neither do olives or sardines.
So I dunno, maybe it's just me.

I know it's just me, cuz I'm a dude and I'm supposed to love sucking vagina.
Get all crazy up in that vagina.
And I know what it's like when a chick says she doesn't like to suck on the cock: dissapointing.
Cuz it's nice and she shouldn't be so silly about it.
So I guess the same goes for me.
But it's my burfday and I cry if I want to.
And it's my life, it's now or never.
Never say never, ever again.

This is like a choose your own adventure...
In the last three lines of the previous paragraph there are three references to popular songs.
Look them up and find their titles.
Band name is not important.
Take the names of the songs and write each letter from their titles on a separate sheet up paper and put them in a bag, or hat, or whatever.
Shaky shaky, mixy mixy.
Pull out the letters one at a time and place them in horizontal order, form left to right, as you pull them out.
Incredibly, every time you pull out the letters they will form a new sentence!
A new sentence that will amaze you and perhaps even change your life.

I didn't believe this when I first heard about it, but I tried it for myself, and it's really cool.

For more information, visit wwww.sticksandstonesmakebutter.com.
or, if you were writing html, you'd right and close it up with a " symbol, so it knows to close out the anchor.
Note: "a" stands for anchor, "href" stands for hyper text reference, and ">FU< "stands for go fuck yourself!

No but seriously try it.
It's cool.

But also go fuck yourself.

That's getting a little redundant.
or perhaps just the way you chose to interpret it.

I'd like to take a moment now for a reference to string cheese made in the text above.
As you may have noticed there is no reference to string cheese in the text above.
Which is precisely why I'm bringing it up now.
Fromage.
I mean honestly, you think the old timers tending to their cheeses ever thought an orange cheese might one day come out of an aersol can
and make life so much easier for everyone who would otherwise have had to cut actual peices of cheese for their crackers?
But sometimes bad is good.
It's the genius of junk food.
It's so bad it's good.

Which makes me think of the Turner Prize.
So bad, it's good.
Controversial.
Genius. Retarded.
The Turner Prize is like an idiot savant.
A little bit of both at the same time.

It's like me, also.
A little bit of both.
A little bit of everything, really.
A little bit of you.
A little bit of me.
Wow, "little" written four times in four lines.
Little, little, little, little. And now there exists a horizontal version.
I wonder which it prefers.
Personally I prefer it vertical.
But that's just me.
And you're just you.

And I don't like you very much anymore.
What I mean is that as I grow older, i have less patience for the you's i don't like.
And now I realize it's ok for me not to like some you's.
And some you'se inevitably won't like me.
So it's like a circle, and it works out for everybody.
Right?
Wrong. Often the You's that you dislike and the me's that dislike you are busy disliking different me and you's.

Well, the restaurant's name is actually Mie and Yu, and it's in Georgetown in DC.
What a poor excuse for a cool neighborhood.
But I love it.
Cuz I gotta.
Cuz it grew me up.
I grew from it.
What I mean is I grew up there and so part of it is me and part of it is you.
Now i've lost both of us.

Just the two of us, you and I.
That's all I'm gonna say about that one.
But wilberg smithsonian might help in any searches you may conduct on the topic.


I think it's about time to take a look back to how this all got started and try and hook a little 123 on this motha fucka.
1 is the beginning, 2 is the middle, and 3 is the end.
Applied to a family of three children that makes more sense, in this case less, but it does work, it's just a little more obscure.
Obscure are the signals that women give us.
Or perhaps it's just the way we choose to interpret those signals.
Because in the end, life is pretty black and white.
Either it is, or it isn't.
That's at the very basic level.
So mixed signals are really just a result of a person choosing to brood in the gray area instead of making a decision, one way or another.
Decisions aren't usually that difficult, their level of difficulty simply relies on the time we want to invest in making them.
So I'm getting mixed signals from this married chick.
Not really, she either want's it or she don't.
Same applies to me.
Either I DO, or I don't.
So what's the fussy wus?

There is none. Which means, unfortunately, that neither the "mixed signals" the "mixed nuts" or the "mix ups" really mean anything...and therefore,
This text doesn't really mean anything.
Ouch.
Really?

What a bloody waste of time!
Imagine if you weren't doing anything, just sitting there, and it was bloody all over the place.
Now THAT would be a bloody waste of time.
But otherwise it's just a waste of time.

Speaking of waste of time.
It's not true.
Not about Wilberg Smithsonian, and not about the other thing.

But as I lay me down to sleep...
I wan't you to know something.
I have always loved you and always will. But I'm not IN love with you.
And so to be fair to both of us, it's best that we end this now.
It's not you, of course, you're an amazing person.
It's just...it's just that I've got a lot going on right now and I can't give you the attention you deserve.
And I want you to be happy.
You deserve to be happy.
I've been sleeping with my boss.
I've been sucking on the admin.
I took your best friend out for the time of his life and I rejoiced in the inner turmoil it caused him.
I compared the two of you to my friends.
We laughed about it.
You don't have a small penis...but he has a really big one.
And that's a really good thing to have in life.
It does a body good.
It does a body real good.
Cock.
Lot's of it.
In my mouth,
in my face,
all over the place.

Wow! Issues.
Issue with a tissue.
Tissue, sinew, and a brief allusion to shakespeare.
And so now this text is golden.
Cuz it'll show up on searches for willy.
And willy's the authority on literature.

And we were talking about peni and cocks, and in the very next paragraph, we talk about willy's.
I think things are interelated, intertwined, and have deeper meanings.
No i don't, I know better than that.

Psychological analyses.
Psycho anal calyses logi.
Annagram, meaning mostly nothing.

And that's it.
Damn, I wanted to end on a bright note that tied everything together.
But it's now gonna happen.
Shit.

Gotta let it go.

There will be others.

Much love,

word to your moms.

Frankie D

Pick tooth bad God.

I have this nasty habit of picking at my teeth. In a particularly spastic fit this afternoon, I picked at the gum so hard that one of my teeth loosened and eventually fell out. "Son of a bitch" I thought to myself, this isn't good! I've had dreams like this and I hoped I would soon wake up from this immensely realistic episode. But it was not to be...moments passed and he blood started to flow. Needless to say an intense panic ensued.

I went into the bathroom to spit the blood into the sink and assess the damage in the mirror. As I looked into my gap-toothed reflection my mom's voice kept playing in my head: "Whatever you do son, never do the irreversible". I thought it was bad advice at the time and it didn't help now that I had committed the ultimate irreversible act. I tried to cry and hope somebody or someone, perhaps my mom's voice again, would come to the rescue and tell me everything was going to be alright. But I'm a grown man now and that simply doesn't work anymore.

I washed my mouth out with cold water and eventually the bleeding eased. My next plan of action was to make a few phone calls. I called my buddy and canceled our plans. I simply said I wasn't feeling well.

Having bought myself some time, I went over to the couch and sat down. I stared blankly at the high ceilings, wishing that this hadn't happened. I thought about what a terrible person I had become. I was off pursuing my career as an artist and I hadn't made any work and all I had to show for my time was a missing tooth. And then it dawned on me: a way out of this mess.

I couldn't do anything about the fact that my tooth was out, but at least I could work on the story. No one knew that my tooth was already out, no one knew what had happened. So, to the rest of the world I wasn't a terrible person yet, I was just me not feeling well. This is what I would do: I would go out to the clubs towards the end of the night, tooth in hand, and pick a fight. I would let him hit me once and I would peel over and come up with my gap toothed face. And then I could tell everyone that I'd lost my tooth in a fight. And that would be perfectly acceptable!

Somewhat relieved and surprised by my ingenious solution, I decided to celebrate with a little vodka. I poured myself a healthy glass with lots of ice cubes and went to the computer to turn on the classical music channel on BBC's online service. Classical music had been a recent development in my musical tastes and I thought it would help mellow me out during the next couple of hours.

While I was at the computer I took the opportunity to look up some photos of better times. I began to get that sinking feeling again as I looked at pictures of my friends and I during better times, before everything changed. I decided to leave the photos and move on to some more neutral material. Pretty soon I was on my favorite porn site, distracted by all the beautiful naked ladies. An hour passed and I poured myself some more vodka.

Another hour, and some more vodka. Another hour, and a little more vodka. Soon I was totally wasted. I made my way back to the couch, tooth tightly clenched in my right fist, and plopped down. Moments later my eyelids became irreversibly heavy and I fought to keep them open. I knew I couldn't fall asleep but I was suddenly so exhausted and sleep would make everything go away. The last thing I remember is seeing Nelson Mandela's face on his autobiography that was resting on the coffee table. My heart sank. He had done so much in his life and here I was having accomplished nothing and missing a tooth.

PART TWO:

I was yanked from my oblivious state early the next morning. The buzzer was blaring and in a hung-over head fog I stumbled instinctively to answer the call. A bright and fresh and beautiful woman's voice was on the other end. "What are you doing? Let's go!" the voice commanded. Shit. I had forgotten all about Sunday brunch. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to have solved my problem by now, and yet here I was, fucked. And then another terrible realization...I was clenching the phone with my right hand. I'd lost the tooth.

In a panic, I told her I was violently ill and that she'd have to go on without me. She persisted, she wanted to come up to check on me. I told her that it would be impossible and I could never make it downstairs to open the door for her. She eventually hesitatingly agreed and said she'd come back after brunch. Relieved, I put down the receiver and went to throw-up in the bathroom.

PART 2 b
When I told everybody that Erik wasn't feeling well and that he wasn't coming Philip seemed very surprised. He told us that Erik had called last night to cancel "Bowl for Beer" night at Bowlarama- a weekly tradition. We decided he must really not be feeling well and all agreed we'd stop off after Brunch and get some comfort food and movies for him. After a few more comments, the intensity of Erik's predicament dissipated and we went about ordering bloody maries and mimosas.

It was one of our better brunches and I was sad for Erik that he was missing it. Of course at the time I just thought he had a stomach flu and that he'd soon be back having brunch with the crew, so I wasn't too worried.

It's those little things in life and today we had the round table in the back and we didn't have to wait long to get it and the egg's Benedict were particularly on point. I was in high spirits. We had the usual mix of philosophical and political discussions and then Philip told us about his next book. It was about a boy in early 20th century London who had a nasty set of parents and would escape his torturous reality by writing and drawing a comic strip that revolved around a boy who builds a hot air balloon and escapes to a mysterious and unknown land. Though Philip tends to talk too much, the subject matter today was captivating and we were all very excited to hear what happens next. But it was not to be. The Brunch rush was in full effect and the waiter subtly but assertively asked us if we wanted anything else: he needed the table for the next group. Yanked back to reality we paid the bill and soon were standing outside.

It was a crisp and beautiful autumn day and somehow the urgency of Erik's situation had left our minds. I said goodbye to everybody and it wasn't until I rounded the first corner that i remembered Erik. I felt terrible for forgetting, but I resolved to go to the supermarket and stock up on some chicken soup and other feel-good supplies. He would never know that I'd ever forgotten about him and everything would be ok.

As I was walking through the aisles my mind started to wander. I thought about the first time I'd met Erik during Frosh Week in College. We immediately hit it off which I was really excited about because he was just the type of kid I had imagined I would meet in university...somebody different.

Erik's mom was French and he spoke the language fluently. He had traveled all over the world thanks to his diplomatic parents and had just finished high-school in Paris. He was back in the states to pursue his studies and he was simply super exciting to me. Another thing that endeared him to me was that he also seemed so intrigued by me. For him, my life and how I had grown up in a small farming town was captivating. At first I was scared he would soon realize that I was not actually that interesting at all but as we spent more and more time together it became obvious that who we were really didn't matter. We were just two people who got along really well.

So much time had passed since then and we were still such good friends. But something was beginning to bother me. Thinking about how Erik and when we first met made me realize how much he had changed since then. Something in him had slowly been blurring away. He wasn't as sharp and witty anymore. He wasn't happy all the time like he used to be. He seemed to be working less and less. I suddenly got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Erik was not well. I don't know how or why I had finally come to this realization today, but I was suddenly very worried about him.

My mood had been so light and cheery and now I was walking quickly, lost in thought, navigating my way back to Erik's place. It's almost like I was afraid to see him now. I felt estranged by my most recent realization and I wondered if he'd be able to tell. I came up to his building and I hesitated. Should I ring the bell or just go home and call him? Something inside me made me anxious to go up and see him for fear that I'd confirm my realization.

For a while I just stood there. I realized I might seem like a bit of a crazy woman just standing there so I reach for a cigarette and leaned against the wall. I thought about calling Philip but part of me didn't want to share my secret. I was worried and didn't know what to do. I became numb and soon I was lost in looking at the cigarette smoke floating in the cool crisp air.

Part 3:

I was sitting on the ledge when I saw her come round the corner. Fuck, I was going to have to let her in this time. I started to shuffle around but then she stopped in front of my door and just stared at it. I thought her phone might be ringing in her purse and had distracted her or something, but she just stood there. She eventually lit a cigarette and leaned against the building. Something inside me told me that she knew. But how? How could she know? Had she spied on me? No, that was simply not possible. There is no way she could know. But why then, why had she stopped, why was she just standing there? What was I going to do?

In some part of Nelson's book, somewhere in the first half, he warns about the dangers of vascillating without making any concrete decisions. If no action is taken, things are eventually decided for you. And unfortunately this was to ring particularly true today.

I'm sitting on the ledge, watching her smoke her cigarette, both lost in our own thoughts. And then the most incredible thing happened...she suddenly pushes off of the wall and makes for the crosswalk. She waits there. To the left of her there is a loud noise. I turn to look and see the 39 bus careening out of control. The front axle has collapsed and the front of the bus is crashing into the ground. The bus has momentum and it's not going to stop anytime soon. I open my mouth to scream but everything happens so fast...the right side of the bus lifts up onto the sidewalk and clips HER right off her feet. She was in the midst of reacting but couldn't get out of the way in time. She goes flying out out onto the street to where I can't see her land. The bus stops. There is an eerie silence, and then an explosion of screams and calls for help. I see people rushing over to where she would be but I still can't see her. As I run down the two flights of stairs, I can already hear the sirens. I hear commotion and panic in the lobby. When I get down there the landlady is screaming with a broom in her hand. She had been sweeping the floor and had seen everything through the front doors. She prays to God in her native Spanish.

I come out to a devastating scene. She's lying in the opposite crosswalk in an unnaturally contorted position, motionless. As I come up to her, a group of people are hunched over her and a big burly guy in a suit gently turns her over onto her back. She is bleeding from the head, her face unrecognizable, and it looks like her shin bone is sticking out through her pant leg. This is terrible. I almost faint. She doesn't seem conscious, she's not responding. I don't know what to do. I go around to the other side of her and I think about grabbing her hand and telling her I'm with her. But my palms are wet and I'm feeling very shaky. Someone is holding her head, calling for the paramedics. This is terrible. This is bad. I stand there and call her name but I feel my body is about to buckle. I'm weak in the knees. My eyes are heavy and I can't see straight. I lose my balance, and then, darkness. I've blacked out.



PART 4:

I wake up what turns out to be a week later. I'm in a hospital. There's one other person in the bed next to me and I'm by the window. It's annoyingly bright outside. I try to speak but only a muffled moan comes out...I have some sort of mouth cast on. Shit shit shit. They must have found out, I'm fucked. The old guy in the bed next to me starts yelling for the nurse: "the kid's waking up! The kid's waking up!". I want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but again, only a muffled moan comes out. I have a terrible pain in my jaw.

The nurse comes in and I'm terrified. I'm ready for her to tell me what a terrible person I am. I'm ready for her to chastise me for picking my own tooth out. I'm ready for her to send me to the psych ward. I'm ready for a lot of terrible things. But as she approaches, she smiles, and says:"well well, welcome back sweetheart! Don't try to speak, you've got a cast on your jaw. The doctor is on his way and he'll talk to you.". I'm bewildered. What did I dream, and what was for real. I can't remember anything. No, wait. I remember...I was running down the stairs and then...and then what? Oh my God! Lindsay! What happened to Lindsay? I can see that the nurse has been reading my thought process. Her smile turns from one of joy to one of pity. She knows what I've just remembered and what I want to know. What I need to know.

The doctor comes in and I'm moaning as loud as I can. He introduces himself and tells me not to try to speak. He's stoic and strong but he has some bad new to deliver. I've been in hospital for a week. I was at the scene of the accident and witnesses had told the medics that I passed out and hit the ground hard, cracking my jaw and hitting my head. It had been a blur of confusion for everybody. Some people thought we'd both been hit by the bus. Lindsay, the girl who was hit by the bus is alive but in a deep coma with severe fractures all over her body. It's hard to tell at this point if she'll pull through. Her family was here and wanted to speak to me.

Mrs. Logan walked in, tired and emotionally exhausted, but looking as together as the situation could manage. She treated me gently and stroked my forehead and told me everything was going to be alright. Tears welled up in my eyes. I needed the comfort, I needed to release all the pain. Her gentle touch touched me at the core and I surrendered to my inner feelings. It was an incredible release.

She told me my parent's were on the way. They had been in India on a mixed tour of business and pleasure and where in the remote town of DSAKHKJSDHG when the accident happened. It had been days till they got word. They were arriving that very afternoon from Frankfurt. They would be here soon and not to worry. She caressed my forehead and I started feeling drowsy again. My eyelids became heavy, and I passed out to the sight of Mr. Logan coming up behind his wife.

The next few days would be a blur. Philip came by with the others and we chatted and tried to keep the conversation simple but we all knew Lindsay wasn't doing well. They told me to be strong and that we'd all get through this. I felt deep pangs of guilt. Nobody could see my mouth but everyone would assume I'd lost my tooth when I hit my head. I was a traitor and a lier and fate had stepped in to save me the embarassment of having picked out my own tooth, but had almost killed Lindsay. This was bullshit.


In the late night hours when no one was around, I'd come out of my sleep and I'd try to talk to God. I had prayed for help, for a way out of my mistake and he had listened to me. And he had sent the bus to hit Lindsay so that I'd eventually black out and hit my head and break my jaw and no one would ever know what I'd done and what had really happened. But why did he have to do that to Lindsay? That was ridiculous and if he was really listening to me why did he have to be so cruel? Couldn't he have taught me a lesson in any other way? This was bullshit, God, and it wasn't going to be good enough. He was going to have to do better. But being angry takes a lot out of you when your heavily sedated and I didn't have the strength to keep fighting and I'd fall asleep.

God wasn't very responsive...Lindsay died a few days later.

As it turned out, I would have an apparatus on my jaw for months and would have to avoid speaking. It was a quiet time for me. Nothing made sense and i just followed the daily rituals that I was supposed to. I went to Lindsay's funeral in a wheel chair. The crew got together late that night after everyone had gone home, and I sat there with my friends drinking whiskey through a straw. Everyone was devastated. It was going to be a difficult time. No one spoke much.

With time, the intensity of the situation eased and slowly people went back to leading their lives. The group dynamic had changed and we grew apart. It was like our being together reminded us too much of what had happened. We tried to be supportive of one another, but I felt like I was harboring such a terrible secret that it made it hard for me to be around them. I felt responsible for Lindsay's death. I had asked for a way out and I had gotten it. And old song from a play I was in in high-school started endlessly looping in my head. It was a morose song and it started with the words: "Careful the wish you make, wishes are children. Careful the path they take, wishes come true".

I moved back in with my parents and my mom took care of me. We set up the garage in the back as my studio, but mostly I just wheeled myself in there and stared blankly through the window until my mom called me in for lunch. I didn't need the wheelchair but I had grown accustomed to it. No one argued. There was enough tension in the air that it wasn't worth telling me to get out of the chair.

I became even more introverted than I had been before and spent most of my days staring out the window and thinking about what a mess I had turned out to be and how unfair life really was in the end. My parent's were strong people and didn't push me too much. We lived parallel lives and they kept busy with their diplomatic lifestyle.

I was determined to get through this in one sitting, but I'm afraid time has gotten the better of me. I'm tired and my eyes are getting heavy. I promise I'll write again soon. I miss you.

Love,

Erik.

Monsieur Baton

I left home when I was 11.
Not because I was forced to but because it had become evident that it was my time to leave.
Evidently it was not evident to everyone, but it was evident to me.
And so I grabbed my red bandanna and filled it with all the necessary supplies and tied it to my favorite walking stick. In French, stick is spelled and pronounced “baton”. You can think of Baton Rouge Louisianna if it helps. But the real reason I am talking about baton is because it is the name of my favorite imaginary friend. Well, Monsieur Baton is his real name, but most the time I call him baton for short.
And simple.
A good imaginary friend is one of the most important things you can bring when you leave home, or on most any adventure really, and the best part is that he hardly takes up any room in your bandanna pouch.
Which brings me to a very interesting subject: how to pack your bandanna for adventure. The fact of the matter is that it doesn’t really matter how long you are going for, the important thing to remember is to pack essentials only, and pack light. I can’t say that enough! Sometimes on the road you have to make quick decisions and there’s nothing worse than having a overflowing bandanna slow you down. Just so you know, Monsieur Baton has been an imaginary friend to a few kids before and he told me he’s seen very bad things happen to children that over pack. You shouldn’t be such a sissy anyway. I don’t really want to scare you, but you should know that you should take what I’m saying really seriously. I mean about not overpacking the bandanna. Of course!
OK, so back to the list: one travel sewing kit, one towel/blanket/magic-carpet type of thing, one band aid, one pack of chewing gum, one cantine (to be filled with H2O before departure), one mini-flask with a good Irish Whisky (not for you if you’re under the legal age), one saucisson from the local butcher’s, one French baguette (or other bread item…Baton likes baguettes), one (and only one!) photograph or two-dimensional relic from home, and last but certainly not least, one imaginary friend (remember three’s a croud and can cause problems on the road). Oh yeah, and save up as many money coins as you can before you leave, and put them in a leather pouch around your waist or something (that’s what I do and it works fine).

I took a train cuz the bus is more for the poor folks and I’m not quite ready for that yet. You never are at the beginning of an adventure!
The train wasn’t so packed and I had one of those seats that has a table and then another seat across from it. So once I got settled I got out some peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Baton sat across from me and we shared it. We didn’t talk much mostly becasause we were a little sad and a little scared. But everything was going to be ok.

Soon it was dark outside and there wasn’t much to look at anymore. I started feeling sleepy so I told Baton to take my teeth and take my bladder and wash my teeth and empty my bladder please, if he could. Just so you know Baton is an amazing imaginary friend, and not all imaginary friends can do that!
As I fell asleep in my dream, I kept waking up and falling asleep and everytime I would wake up I would be standing over myself and watching myself sleeping. So it was a very strange beginning to the nightmare that followed…

Father was a big burly man that I never got to know before I left. He was a business man and did businessy things and was very good at what he did. And he left early in the morning and came home the latest at night. Sometimes his breath smelled horrid, a mix of winter cold and cocktails, mixed with a slight tinge of persperation from walking so fast all bundled up in the cold. Those were the nights he always held you a little longer for some reason. He provided very well for our family. Well, he provided a lot of money so that we were not rich but we never needed anything that we didn’t get eventually. But apart from that, father wasn’t the most social man, he liked to keep to himself, it seemed. And mother and him slept in different rooms: Father had the whole top floor all to himself, and mother slept all alone in the room on the second floor where the father and mother are supposed to sleep. I never got to go up to the third floor, I wasn’t aloud. The most I ever got was a glimpse of the inside before he would shut the door and it was very strange because the ceilings and walls were painted pitch black. So I was very confused about what father did up there but mother told me not to bother with such silly questions.