I’m in the library now, but before making my way into the publicly funded wonder warehouse of hard copy knowledge I was reminded that things can always be worse. Feeling just a little bit better about myself even “cool” for a split second I somehow managed to to drop my dumby phone into an empty container of several days old water. The result was a resounding “Bloop!” followed by frantic shaking. Not in panic. After all we’re talking about a $35 phone, but it has all my contacts in it and all my contacts have this number. My number is easy to remember and I like it.
A year or so it disappeared for about a week or two before I bought the exact same model connected it to a new number got everything all straightened out to the point where even my mom had programmed my new number into my phone. Then, my phone was found by me under the passenger side seat. A place where I had looked for it numerous times.
Back to my entry. Even just walking into the building I already knew I wouldn’t like it as much as my car. As I was surrounded by people.
Sure there is internet in here but I realized if I had to go to the bathroom, or more urgently at the moment find a Kleenex I would have to leave my tablet, or pack it up and take it with me, OR worst of all find someone another human being to watch my shit for me while I take care of my basic human needs. Moral of the story? Next time bring Kleenexes.
I took a detour to the windowed back wall of this awesomely stale and clean government building as I noticed a patron in tights or hose. I say hose because even as a grown man I have trouble spelling it out or saying the word.
As a teen, at the dawn of the internet when stories of internet based luring of teenagers away from their parents homes in search of romance was even a thing. Of course it didn’t take long for this era of wild west internet chat to come to an end. But it was long enough for me, the nerdy loner I still am to this day, to find romance. Of course back then I was a lot more guarded about my fetish to the point where I had only told maybe one or two of my very best male friends. To which they weren’t all the interested.
In the course of these romances, particularly the one I had in mind when I started the previous paragraph and over countless spent long distance phone cards the code word “Pineapples” was used both by me and by her.
Flashback to today and it was hard to tell if they were hose or tights, to thick to be hose, to skin colored to be tights. The object of my true interest of course was obscured and greatly so by almost knee high boots.
My fetish gets more specific than just the garment it’s female feet in the garment. Something I’m sure (even more sure now) I’ll delve deeper into later.
For now though the words are coming hard and fast and I don’t want to stop writing, so I figured I should, even if I post my blogs a week apart.
As I sit here squirrels and blue jays take turns on the bird feeder. Squirrels searching through the snow beneath for a stray January acorn under a small glazing of snow.
I look out upon the busy street beyond the window at the busy street at the end of squirrel territory.
I have graduated to WordPad from NotePad in my previous entry. Eventually I’ll move onto google docs for spell check type activities.
Before “The Bloop” I was planning on texting my wife, who has a matching phone as I do. She made use of my “new” dummy phone after my old one was discovered and she was out from under the massively expensive contract for her very female pink case covered phone. Cracked during a victorious and highly intoxicated bachlorette party. She came home in black tights, more drunk than I had ever seen her, I was sure I was actually about to be raped. No seriously. I supposed I would have been willing, but after my day of stripperless, lapdanceless, bachlor party activities I was exhausted. I wouldn’t have been able to perform. She would have been hurt and disappointed and volatile, crying, ruining the night she had just had.
I have heard that alcohol acts as sort of an amplify, whatever you are you are even more so when drunk. So as expected, my hot wife to be, black heels long ago kicked off she recounted her evening. Which included dancing on a table somewhere down town.
I let her talk, told her about my party. Which I enjoyed and wouldn’t have changed a thing about. Perhaps I will write about it later or perhaps I will write it on my more public blog. Although if I have my way neither the meger audience I have on that blog or whatever (if any) audience this gathers will never meet the other. And you, the reader (if you exsist, will never find the other.
Back to the post party. I admired her long black tight covered legs and feet. She smothered me with compliments, about how much she loved me, how lucky she was to have found me…etc etc. The seems like a million years ago now. But it was only like a year and a half, I could be more accurate but I would have to do he math.
The distance from then to now….as far as where our relationship has gone, seems like the distance between stars or planets.
Celestial bodies aside, as I was saying, before “The Bloop” I was planning on caving, texting her. I know how the game ends. As I said in my first blog I wonder if she has grown tired of “the game”. The game usually draws to a close by her saying something to the effect of “how soon do you want me and the kids to move out?”
But now I have to send her a chat. I wonder what her response will be? I should blog it live huh?
I created a new google for this account last night, I was struggling then too, “Coming Undone” by Korn came up at random on my google play, I had been tossing around the idea for awhile and it seemed fitting. I used my same cell number I had used for all my other google accounts. Including the account I was “gifted” back in about 2004 by a co-worker at the time. Can you rememer that? In order to get a google email account, someone had to GIVE it to you?
This chat, which encompasses the very beginning to the very now of our relationship I will have to use to contact her.
She bought a giant tablet I am envious of from a heartless-soulless retail store I will not mention, but she bought it at an enormous discount. In any case I have to use my age old account to contact her now.
But at some point maybe not even today I’ll have to log into my new account I made for this blog to post these blogs.
I’m listing to the album “See You On The Other Side” which contains the name for this blog. I was smart enough to download it so I could listen to it off account, but by now I”m most likely half way through the whole damn album.
And now…..I step into the darkness and attempt to make contact…..