Introduction to Pariah Kari

 
This pen’s got a ton of irony in name only. Pontchartrain Hotel ball point. January, 2005. Hotel is a sort of great, cavernous monolithic creature ringed in glass in a filthy city sprung up from the worst apocalyptic nightmares of busboys, bellboys, line cooks, and concierges. Only such people can have these dreams. Anyways it’s all one huge tourist trap and that’s how I got suckered here. I still can’t watch CNN and not think of you. I’m lost. At the bottom of my rope. In the middle of my well. Can’t see the bottom anymore. I’m preachy. I’m vain. I want to go fishing on dangerous rocks. I want to punch holes in icy places. This is shocking arousal. A sort of mental pleasure. I gave way, gave way, gave way. I wish she’d curl up next to me in bold, naked form. Drink, lust, live. Breathe, follow closely behind. I’ve been cornered before and now I’m wishing it’ll happen again against kitchen island center room sink, stove, counter. Love is fragmented sometimes and this might be a great example of fragmentation. “Do you want juice?” Juice? SNAP! “Mark! Juice?” Shit. I’m standing, dumbfounded, freaked, mentally stripping every cutesy sweet intelligent thought she and I had ever had and slamming her into aforementioned island. Yeah, I’ll have a glass… I wonder if it’s ever occurred to anyone that out of all the open juice containers in refrigerators all across the world that the juice in said containers is really 80% juice and 20% saliva. Probably. Great, orange flavored spit. Little does she know it’s dripping down my mind.