Carving out a corner to post random crap.
You're better off finding a trusted civilian who'll listen to your (what usually are very amusing) existential crises, and maintaining a lifestyle where your body and mind are allowed to perform at peak proficiency. Sorry, I hope that didn't come out sounding all preachily privileged because, you know: You are perfect just the way you are! And get yourself a hobby. Animals are good to have around, too. But please don't pay hard-earned cash money to be told to eat a salad once in a while. Mom told you to eat your vegetables, probably many times, and for free even.
nice guys
know a kind word
plus an easy smile
are the best lures
to snare an unsuspecting heart
so simple to kill them with attention
they were all easy girls once
no more bullseye on their backs
j. could pick them out of a crowd too
and she warned the neighbor about m.
sometimes the wrong boy is the safe choice
but a girl doesn't listen when she's got
stars in her eyes
Nightly we dream of a more perfect version of each other.
Oblique references abound regarding "My Best Self."
Gary knows his heart has a direct line to his "Dream Girl."
So much is at stake when LOVE is the order of the day.
Annoyed by limited clothing options, Gary shines in a different way.
Tomorrow is the promise that keeps us nailed to a cross.
Acquiescence is useful when one does find himself nailed to a cross.
CiCi sees her meal ticket in each 15-Piece Thigh & Wing she rings up.
Contrary to pop-psych, opposites are the best hook-ups we can hope for.
Every dog has his day …
Signifying that what you thought you knew never really was.
Sex & Sidearms keep Gary in fighting form.
Oh my gosh! Remember my question last Tuesday? "You don't even play the game, do you?" And how you shook your head with a wide-eyed look and mouthed the word No? Scouts were on the lookout all along. The noticers noticed who showed up. Another way to put this? You are having your Tower Moment, friend. And what have I been saying for the past two years? Make like a tree and leaf. Because you refused to play the game … Destination stamped on your boarding pass? SIBERIA.
I'm good with sitting out delays. I've basically been in a three-year holding pattern. I hope these days have not been a waste of energy. If I came to this place to deliver a message *("You've only got ten good years left. Turn your daydreams into something I can pick up and read, damn it!"), I've 
expressed it in as many ways I could think of:
– Cross-stitched on samplers.
– Silk-screened on t-shirts.
– Painted on pieces of reclaimed wood to be placed in kitchens as a bit of motivational decoration.
In the interim, I've shed yards of old skin. Wish I could turn that material into something meaningful for you. Most of the things Boothby displays are mere trifles. Knick-knacks meant to keep me alive when you leave the confines of the drive-in.
*A very specific message meant for one of you.
As Gary woke up this morning, and realized it was Friday instead of Saturday, he proclaimed to the limoncello-colored walls of his boudoir:
"Faack. No clean clothes. No chance of calling in sick, either." So Gary creakily got out of his four-poster and walked into his closet to have a good look around. Only Special Occasion wear 
was left hanging on the racks. He reached for the spaghetti-strapped, tea-length lime green floral. Just as Gary grabbed the hanger, he had a thought: Faack. I just don't want to wear a size 40 anymore. Maybe I'll drop a couple and see what happens.
Gary was tired. Tired of a lot of things. Like blowing dough on salves and powders and other toiletries that left him in the red every month. Gary had a tough time balancing figures. Today would be the day to take baby steps toward the sort of change Gary hoped CiCi would notice, and maybe even possibly prefer and/or like.
Time is fluid, and what I said yesterday is a betrayal sneaking up on you in 3 … 2 … 1 … The downfall has happened. It goes back to my desire for seeing you leave before the month is out. I have enough strength for the both of us, and therein lies our demise. I am "conscious" of my "knowing" you are lost without your lies. [Watch out when you run into writers. You'll be reading your story soon, and it's one you didn't write.] The Meaning of Life is just to show up. "Showing up is half the battle." People say that, don't they? You told me once, "I don't." You serve others only to short-change yourself. Don't be a martyr to a dream that never was. 15 years and One Hundred Ghosts incubated all your false hopes. Corruption of the body; fertilizer for the mind. [You once said to me: "Hope you get back on your feet." Hope you stay on yours.] Memories are missed opportunities waiting to happen. [The only long-term relationship we ever truly have is with ourselves.]
Sometimes when I talk to you, your eyes are distorted by a liquid shimmer.
"I'm not crying. You're crying!"
A dead guy once called that rheumy-eyed stare "the puddly look of nostalgia."
Are you reliving the past when you look at me? I have to admit there was something oddly familiar the first time I saw you, banging on the side of the vending machine in Bldg. B to loosen a scrunched and skewed bag of Cool Ranch Doritos so it'd drop down into the tray.
We're like feral children coming up in here. Raised by wolves. Literally. Now all this stimuli and rush of new experiences and feelings about what is really happening (which #1: WHAT is really happening? And #2: Feelings are things we can't even describe let alone understand because before we were, like, on all fours foraging for food and keeping tails tightly tucked between legs) is so foreign that we're standing here in all this light with our lips forming little puckered "O" shapes and maybe a squeak-type sound coming out of us and knowing, just "Knowing" this is a whole new world entirely than the shady boughs from whence we came.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 