the hardware store gave me a free hat.

Matt and I saw Weezy again night before last. Same shirt, animosity, etc.
I played some Ms. Pac-Man at Sputnik over a couple beers, but the stick was stuck and as a result I found my little Ms. to be unable to perform her wifely duties of gathering produce and not being eaten by strange European ghosts.


At first things were great.

She'd pick up the strawberries I'd ask for, the cherries too. But I must've done her wrong somewhere along the line because I could see her, plain as day, waiting expectantly for the inevitable ghost onslaught. Unable, perhaps, unwilling to move, she just stayed there, back to the impending holocaust (she's always been a tease) just waiting for me to grab that stick and bring her back home to my loving arms, to teach her once again to love...

And I tried. Needing to hold her again so desperately I grappled with that red stick for what felt like days, but she wouldn't respond.

I had hurt her so deeply, she thought herself better off in the arms of a ghost rather than with me, to her but an apparition, the shell of a once kindred soul.


Someone spilled beer on the machine. That's all I'm saying here. Bitch wouldn't move.