A Frank Confession.

 

I'm starting to have doubts about whether people who mention things to me are trying to send a secret message. I see them meeting during the remission at a mediocre concert. They look at each other like it was something they ate. Every now and then I'll offer one of them a piece of advice concerning their reliance on other services. Sometimes they'll shoot me down. Once in a while they try to pretend to be more open. It's a blessing in disguise, because, from the way I have them pegged, if I were to  introduce one and then another and even a third, fourth and so on, a complex series of trusts would need to be codified. In order to do that, I'd need a skin sample and a recording of their morning routine. This will take some doing.

To be fair, I've only started to enact this as a favor to my Father. He's a Rectilinear Director of the Comfort League. His name is traditionally very difficult to pronounce. Even from thirty thousand feet, you'd have to hand it to yourself. Any closer and you'd be a fool not to. Beyond that, it's a cheap shot at a fool's bargain. I won't go near the water again. This time of year the flavor just isn't right. When we come down into a leading valley, everyone can tell that more than one of us might need a helpful nudge. I'm all but out of it when my girlfriend is found hiding by herself inside a very large and very old hollowed out magnet. Her hair is usually 'to die for', but that day? Forget about it! There's just no way. Up till then I'd scraped her wrist raw with anticipation. Now everyone looked the same. Whether on the inside or the outside, it always comes up numbers. Sometimes there's even a sound. We all become suspicious. Especially the taller ones. Why? They always go first, you retard!

When I enter the room, it's always with a little flip. My training partner gives me a look and I take the hint. Normally I like to travel in pairs, but this time there's a bench I've got my eye on. Sitting pretty is how I like it. The fingers are placed near his ear. Good thing he doesn't sleep well or I'd need to use a nozzle. The first drop hits him like a ton of bricks. The next day we're no longer speaking. Instead, I decide to go with a 'blessing' strategy. He's prone to a milky discharge. During that last Winter, I could tell we never really had anything in common at all. By that time I'd already been sleeping in shifts at this other brute's house. And, just so you know, no, I've never been 'that' way. (This will serve you well.)

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