I felt fire.

He was already sitting there. I arrived and sat two seats over.

He ordered the ribs with fries. I ordered a spinach salad with grilled chicken.

I have five fingers attached to each of my hands. He had five on his left and three on his right.

He moved one seat closer.

We drank. We talked.

He was divorced and had a girlfriend. I was divorced and had a boyfriend.

He was from Maine and had a homestead. I was from Atlanta and had a 600’ ft loft.

He was handsome and had an attractive beard. I was beautiful and had Aphrodite’s hair, but darker.

We drank. We talked.

He was intriguing with many stories and made me laugh. I was his equal and enjoyed his bellow.

I wanted to ask him about his missing fingers. He wanted to ask me why I didn’t ask about them.

We went to his room.

We drank. We talked.

He touched me with his three fingers. I felt fire.

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littlegirl says meow: A story of misdirected texts, four lokos and new underwear.

Friends close to me know that I am always entertained by wrong number texting. Typically, when I receive them, I ignore them. Recently, I received this text from someone I don’t know:

“hey. can me and lucie eat all the ice cream and jump on the beds?”

That sounds like a splendid idea, so I replied, “yes”

I never heard from them again and hope everything worked out okay with the ice cream.

Much more entertaining was an exchange I had during the summer of 2011. It began in early July with a few missed phone calls from a number I never knew and a couple of random texts that I ignored. Although you can clearly hear MY voice saying MY name on MY voicemail message, she still left a couple messages for “Jim”. I don’t think I even know a Jim. The texts continued and I finally responded with “wrong number”. This continued over a couple of weeks.

wrong number. Wrong Number! WRONGNUMBER!!!!

You would think the average person would pause and check that they had the correct number. You would think. In the middle of the continued back and forth and with some encouragement from friends, I lost my sanity and lowered myself to the level of my texter.

Hilarity followed:

A

Is her name Lisa or Melisa??!? Punctuation is so important, folks!

A number of weeks have passed at this point since the first communication, now legally considered harassment. In August, I did everything I could to block the caller/texter. I was able to block the calls, but not the texts. On August 26, I adopted that old motto that everyone has heard: If you can’t beat them, join ‘em. It was a total game changer.

B

During the text exchanges on this day, I was traveling in Atlanta for work. After the work week ended, I headed to visit my best friend in Alabama for the weekend before returning to Florida where I lived at the time. I had a great time visiting her and her husband and while I won’t disclose if they encouraged me to continue the communication madness, I will say that not all of the comments/questions that came next in the exchange were originally mine. It was relieving for me to have the crazy I had been enduring become validated by my friends.

cD

I have no idea where I was getting picked up from or where home was, but I knew something big was about to happen.

E

Oh boy, somebody is going to be disappointed about those plums.

f

This is when the shit hits the fan or the road or something is going to hit something. It’s going down.

(I really was in Huntsville.)

g

I like how the language changes quickly into sanskrit. What exactly does “yw 9ww ihav” mean? Part of me felt pretty darn bad at this point. Part of me figured that Melisa/Lisa should have figured this out by now. Part of me did not care anymore. (Sorry about your eye.)

And then finally….the next day, the angels sang. A miracle!

h

Thank you Melisa/Lisa! Thank you.

It was a very, very short lived miracle.

i

I was so excited that she finally understood and had removed me. And then 5 days later, like a homing pigeon with a message about karma, she was back.

Things take a turn for the worse. I am now in the hospital. There’s good news, though. I still have a girlfriend. Oh yeah, and Littlegirl says meow.

jk

I am somewhat curious as to why I am ill. Melisa/Lisa has referred to me as a player. Urban Dictionary defines player as, “A male who is skilled at manipulating (“playing”) others, and especially at seducing women by pretending to care about them, when in reality they are only interested in sex.”  Maybe my girlfriend beat me up? Or her husband? Maybe Littlegirl scratched me and now I have an infection?

At this point, I am distratught. Melisa/Lisa clearly does not care for me. She never really pays me enough attention to understand me and when she gets angry, she curses at me in sanskrit. I just can’t take it anymore and ignore her evil texting.

l

I don’t know why, but for some reason, I need new underwear and that is very concerning. Bill Cosby must have been right.

It all ended after the last message I ever sent to her. I will miss Melisa/Lisa. She will forever be in my blog.

Fin.

Getting my mind right: Individual loss at the sake of societal impact

Storms are strong. Lightning strikes. Electricity is out somewhere between ML King Station and Indian Creek. I have no idea where Indian Creek is but it sounds like something from generations ago and suddenly I’d rather go there than home. I’m stuck on the MARTA. It’s 5:48 PM and people are hot, wet, tired and hangry (a mix of hungry and angry). The conductor assures us that he has no control over our destiny. Most are not convinced.  Eye rolling ensues, as does unhappiness. Mass people, mixed socio-economics, mixed everything–It becomes a sociological study. I pull my hair back; sweat beads beginning to form on my brow. I am entertained.

“I wish I had a cold beer,” says self. I’d like to sit back, but this station is standing room only. Standing room and be ready to run. Confusion occurs as it often does in large groups…do we load on buses? Do we wait for electricity to come back on for the MARTA to run? Go upstairs. Go downstairs. Train is back up? Electricity is!!  I’m as close as I will ever be ready for the running of the bulls. Checking for exit signs. I watch the older people. They are wise. They sit and wait. Someone told me earlier this week that all he has is time. While I appeciate that; it must be nice. I have things to do.  Mostly sleep. I am tired…tungry even.

So here we are. People are late for work. Late picking up kids from daycare. Late for dinner. Late for meetings. Late. But we are together. Somehow, in all of this misery that people want to believe they are victims of, we are united. United as victims or united as hangry, tungry people that all have something in common. We just want to get wherever we are going.

Don’t we all?