Barks In Translation

Where I am right now is standing in the entrance of Ms. River's apartment. 
What I look at, are a pair of big puppy dog eyes and a large tongue that hangs down towards the floor. 
The thing you need to realize is, if you want to get to know Ms. River, you need to get to know Maggie McGaggie. 
Standing on all fours, Maggie McGaggy continues to look up at me, and through her large, puppy brown eyes, her look says, "Who the fuck are you?" 
I bend down and reach the palm of my hand out towards her nose. Maggie sniffs and licks my palm and looks at me one more time. 
Her look says, "Okay." It says, "Just don't try anything with my mom." It says, "Mother Fucker." 
I scratch her behind her ear and tell her it's nice to meet her. 
"Pupsicles!" Ms River says. River bends down and throws her arms around Maggie McGaggie and tells her she loves her. 
The thing is, if you've ever heard Ms. River talk about Maggie, then you know. 
You see for yourself. 
You hear for yourself how much compassion and love River has bottled away, only for a select few to see. 
For those lucky enough to see this face with the mask off, it's kind of a wonderful thing. 
Ms. River puts her cheek up against the nose of Maggie McGaggie and continues to smile. 
"Pupsicles!" Ms. Rivers says "Oh, I love you puppy." She says. 
With her same puppy dog look, Maggie Mcaggie looks at Ms. River and says, "Where the fuck have you been?" She says "...and who the fuck is is the new guy?" 
I slide my laptop bag off my shoulder and take a seat next to a small kitchen table. 
Maggie makes a slow trot my way and stops two feet in front of me. 
"Hi." I say
She looks back at River and back towards me and back towards River. 
"Are you going to be nice Pupsicles?" River asks. 
Maggy Mcaggie, Pupsicles, she pauses a moment, looking towards her mom and back to me. Her look says, "Don't fucking try anything." 
My look back at her, it says, "I wont." It says "At least not when you're in the same room." 
Ms. River sets down her backpack and moves towards myself and a pair of inquisitive puppy dog eyes. 
I stand up and place the palms of both my hands on River's hips and draw her close. 
"BARK!"
I draw River close and press my lips against her lips. 
"BARK, BARK!"
My lips slide down from her lips and press against the soft skin of her neck. 
"BARK, BARK, BARK!"
While the palm of my right hand slowly moves up towards River's back, I can only translate this to, "I thought we had a deal Mother Fucker!" 
I lift Ms. River up and set her on the small dinning room table. 
My hand moves under her shirt and over the top of her breast. My opposite hand pulls up on her shit, sliding it up and over her nipples. 
Just as my tongue begins to swirl around a bare breast and bare nipple, Maggie McGaggie barks, over and over and over she barks. 
This can only translate to, "You don't waste any time do you." This translates to, "Just wait, just you fucking wait until you leave a pair of underwear or a pair of pants on the floor." 
"BARK"
"BARK"
"BARK" 
I stop and laugh and pull myself up from Ms. River and her dinning room table. 
"Maggie McGaggie!" Ms. River says. "Be nice McGags." 
Maggie McGaggie, Pupsicles, McGags, she looks up at me and over to River. Her look says, "That's better." It says, "Works every time." 
After the small kitchen table and kissing, River tells McGags that it's time to go to the park. She grabs a black leash from the kitchen and clips it to the collar of Maggie McGaggie. 
Opening the front passenger door, Ms. River tells me I might want to sit in the back. 
"She's probably going to want to sit in the front seat." River says, "Which means she probably going to want to sit on your lap." She says "Which means it might be a little uncomfortable." 
I tell her it's okay. 
"I don't mind. I'm sure it'll be fine." I say. 
Ms. River opens the back, passenger door for McGaggie.
"Go on." River says. 
Maggie McGaggie looks at Ms. River and over to me. 
"Go on." River says again. 
Maggie McGaggie jumps into the back seat of River's silver Honda Civic and looks at me. 
Her look right now, it says, "Okay." Her look says, "That's how you want to fucking play this is it?" 
Ms. River closes the front drivers door and starts her car. 
With the three of us inside, Maggie McGaggie slowly works her way from the back seat, to my lap, on top of my now squished genitalia and testicles. 
Right now, Maggie's look says, "What?" It says "It's so fun to be out of the house." It says "I'm having a great time! Are you?"
Luckily the drive to the dog park is only three blocks.
By the time we get out, everything below my torso is numb. I kick both of my feet out of the passenger side door and wait for the blood to return. 
Sometimes, this is the price you pay when you try to get to know Maggie McGaggie, when you get to know Ms. River. 
At the park, I hold the end to a short, thick rope. On the opposite end of this rope are a set of teeth, twisting and tugging and pulling. Every once in a while, I let go of my end, giving Maggie the satisfaction that she once again, has bested me. 

As the evening continues, I can honestly say I was happy to meet Maggie McGaggie. As the evening comes to a close, I can honestly say I believe the feeling was mutual. 
You see, the thing you need to realize is, if you want to get to know Ms. River, then you need to get to know Maggie McGaggie. 
You need to get to know Pupsicles, or McGags, or any other nickname Ms. River has for the Blue Heeler mix with adorable puppy brown eyes. 
The clock on my phone now reads 5:05. 
Ms. River rubs her hands through Maggie's ears and head and tells her she loves her. 
Grabbing my laptop bag, I move towards Maggie and her hanging tongue. 
"It was nice to meet you Mcgags." I say. 
Maggie McGaggie continues to hang her tongue. She looks at me through her brown, puppy dog eyes and says. "You too." Followed by, "Mother Fucker" 

Picking up the Pisces

Something small triggers an emotional avalanche, but that just means you're likely to clear away a ton of debris that leaves room for building anew, do get excited about the future Pisces. It's not as bleak as it once looked.
Today your compass will point east, towards the state of Tennessee, and the music capitol of the world they call, "Nashville."
This sign points towards, not necessarily relocation, but towards laughter and happiness and soft pillows to your face.
The world is no longer your oyster Pisces, but a lab coat, over the black, lacy, Victoria secret lingerie you call, future.
Where you are right now Pisces, is on a fast track for success. Just remember to pull over once in a while, look at the sunrise from the sunset. Look at the sunshine from all angles of life.
Don't forgot to stop and slow down Pisces. Remember not all are on your same level. Some are only on a 5, while you're a 30, posting and boasting high scores on Facebook and various social networking sites.
Today you're a calendar Pisces. While you'll be asked on many dates, there is only one you should circle. Check these boxes with caution. Fridays, Saturdays and Somedays will come suddenly, do not let this be your week-end.
Look at your job like a pendulum. Swinging back and forth from 9-9, remember to wind your watch and consider puppy faces and puppy love. While the daily grind may turn you into dust, just remember, someone out there is thinking of  you, waiting patiently, at a DMV, waiting to stand up and clap when your special number is called.
So throw yourself out there, put your name on the board, you, yourself control your destiny.

The ImPACTS of love.

     On my notebook, I write words like, "my" and "mind".
This is followed by several lines of black ink, zigzagging back and forth over these two words.
The sound my energy drink makes while popping the lid, it sounds like air escaping from a Goodyear tire.
I take my pen and cross a zigzag line over "Goodyear" and write "Michelin."
Where I am is sitting on my couch. Unable to fall asleep, I sit and write.
The television in front of me wants to know if I'd like to try the newest formula for hair growth. The advertisement tells me that actors and common people like myself have all had success.
The thoughts that keep me awake tonight are primitive ones.
These thoughts are of naked bodies with naked egos, laying on a mattress of stripped down vulnerability, falling on a blanket of uncovered emotions.
The thoughts keeping me awake tonight are thoughts of blue and soft pink, followed by thoughts of dark windows and warm breath.
My pen crosses out the word "pink" and writes "peach". My pen crosses over the word "peach" and writes "pink"
The television in front of me tells me to, "act now."
It says, "only 3 easy payments of $19.95".
It tells me to act now, and I'll get the shipping and handling for free.
The digital clock in the bottom right hand corner tells me it's a half past midnight.
The energy drink in front of me tells me I'm tired, and will crash and be more tired in two, maybe three hours.
Tonight I lay awake and think of gentle reminders over loud billboards.
When you love someone and loose someone, these reminders becomes a giant billboard. A billboard that follows you around where ever you go. It lets you know that this person you love is a television show or a commercial.
She's an inside joke or a restaurant or a slice of cake with chocolate icing.
All of these are reminders of the time the two of you shared.
All of these are reminders of the times you took for granted and would like nothing else but to get them back.
In tiny letters, my pen writes the word, "chocolate" in front of the word "cake"

The window tint on  her driver and passenger side windows, they tell me it's okay to move forward. 
The large windshield in front of me, the one with wiper-blades and a small family of four in front, this tells me to stay exactly where I am. 
Where I am exactly, is in the front passenger seat, laying with the seat back, with River laying in my lap. 
My right hand slowly slides down her right thigh, between both her legs. 
River's soft pink lips meet my lips while the palm of my hand rubs over a pair of denim jeans. 
Her moan and breath tell me to keep going. 
The white Chevy Blazer that parks next to us, tells me to stop. 
This is the first day River and I hang out, outside of our writers' group. 
This is the first day we've given each other more than one word to write about. 
Ms. River looks up at me, through her deep blue eyes and tells me she wants it to be different this time. 
"I really like you." She says. "I don't want it to be like every other time with every other guy." She says. 
I rub my fingers through the side of her maple brown hair and say, "Okay." 
Looking through tinted windows and bug marks, my right thumb swipes the side of her porcelain cheek. 
"So where are you trying to go with this?" I ask. 
"I don't think we should have sex yet." She says. "Not right now." She says. "I think we should wait three weeks." She says. 
Right now my heart sits in the passenger seat and beeps. It pulses and moves to the sound of an unexpected emotion, one it's never played before. 
My primitive male reaction is to say something like, "Three weeks, one day, it's all the same." 
Instead, I look down into these hazy eyes and say, "sure." I say "that makes sense." I say "yeah, okay". 
The funny though about love, it doesn't have to be three weeks or two months or one year. It can be the first day the two of you spend alone. 
The funny thing about love with River, it can be the moment before the moment's actually started. 
Before silver cars and passenger seats and denim jeans, I was already in love. I was already in love with blue eyes and pink lips. I had already painted a portrait of porcelain skin on a billboard to follow me at every twist and turn. 
The funny thing about love is it doesn't matter if it's one day or three weeks or one year. 
If it's love, time shouldn't make a difference to make it. 
I look down towards Ms. River, into these hazy eyes and I say, "sure." I say "that makes sense." I say "yeah, okay". 


Where I am is on a couch.
The television in front of me wants to know if I'd like to save 10 percent on car insurance.
The pen in my right hand and the paper in my lap, they both want to know if she'll ever come back.
The heart underneath my plain white T-shirt tells me she will.
Tonight I sit in front of a Television, one that tells me all about E-trades and E-harmonies and Esurances.
I sit on a couch wide awake, trying to find the key to open my mind.
The words that keep me awake tonight are "emptiness", "loneliness", "volatile".
If I'm going to write, then I'm going to open my heart, pump blood out through my left ventricle and move from hope to promise.

So River and I, we sit in a parked car and make a pact. 
The funny thing about pacts, they don't usually last as long as they intend to. 

Pine Needles and Quill Pens.

     The message on my cellphone, it tells me River tried calling. It tells me I have one missed call, from 29 minutes earlier
My thumb presses the green square button that dials River's number.

River's thing today is:
She say's she loves me.
She say's she still likes me. "A lot" she says.
She says despite the above two comments, she doesn't think I'm worth it. For all the pain and hurt I've caused her.
On my notebook I write words like, "like" and "love"
I write the word "BUT" in capitol letters and underline it, twice.
I hear Ms. River take a long inhale and exhale through her phone.
Ms. River, she wants to know if I think I'm a good person.
I pause.
"No." I say
"Then why aren't you doing anything to change yourself?" She wants to know.
I pause
I pause and think of a response. After several seconds of self loathing and self reflection, I say, "I don't know.
Right now, I am a Brothers Grimm.
Right now, I am a fairy tale, hanging a life size mirror on my blue wall.
Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
Who is the biggest fuck-up, of us all.
The mirror I stare into, it self reflects a long and jagged index finger, toward my long and self deprecated face.
"You!" This  mirror says.
Why aren't I doing anything to make myself better?
This sentence I jot down in my notebook, over and over I write this.
I circle this sentence and put a trail of questions marks behind it.
Ms. River wants to know why I'm so cruel.
How and why I could do something like this to her.
I breathe and long and steady breath through my phone and tell her,
"I don't know" I say
"What are you going to say?" She wants to know. "What are you going to do?"
I tell her I don't know.
The truth is, I could say a lot. To quote Ms. River, I could say and do "A fuck ton."
It's the execution I'm lacking.
Lack of execution when it comes to romance, simply leads to the execution of the end of romance.
It's the quiet things we do that hurts the people we love.
The thing about River, and most of her ideals, she's right most of the time.
River, she says I give up.
She tells me with a stern voice only Ms. River can mutter and tells me I give up almost everyday.
"Every time you don't call me." She says "You give up."
"Every time you're not writing, you give up."
"Every time there are no flowers, you give up." She says.
Ms. River takes another breath through her phone and exhales a love she's trying very hard to hold to.
"So..." She says "What are you going to do?"
What am I going to do?
I write this sentence down, drawing a box around this statement.
What I'm going to do is not give up.
What I'm going to do is not give up and cross my fingers, placing tips around the hope that I can somehow crawl out of this hole, this cavern of fuck-ups and let downs that I, myself have dug.
"Each day you don't call me to see how I'm doing," River says, "You're giving up."
What I'm going to do is show River love.
A true love.
A love that places the other person above, ahead and beyond yourself.
Where I'm at right now, is sitting in my room.
I'm sitting in my room, thinking of love and hearts needing to mend
I'm thinking of the woman I love, writing on my notebook with a black bic pen.
Talking and listening to Ms. River.
While I talk to her, it feels as if my heart is full of pens and pine needles, as if blood is returning to a numb muscle, a muscle that's been asleep for fall to long.
I tell Ms. River that I should get back to typing. That I have a weeks worth of stories I owe my readers.
"I'll talk to you later?" I say.
"Promise?" She asks.
"Promise, promise." I say.

The 5 W's you meet in Road Rage.

Where I am is sitting on the curb in front of my house, smoking a cigarette.
I watch as two men from across the street, dressed in cowboy hats and bolo ties, walk towards an old blue pickup truck.
I watch as this pickup truck rolls it's windows up and turns the radio on.
Sitting outside, smoking my cigarette, I listen as a steady thumb and bump come from this blue pickup truck.
This steady thump and bump is followed by a woman's voice, singing the same words and phrases, over and over again, in a loop.
Suddenly, there's a break in the music, a silence. During this silence, a voice under a cowboy hat yells from inside the truck, "Wait for it..." This is followed by a thunderous crash of distorted beats and buzzing noises.
The blue pickup truck starts to shake and the two cowboys wave their arms up and down.
Oil and Vinegar.
Sugar and Salt
Cowboys and Techno music.
I flick my cigarette into the street and wish Ms. River was here.
To witness this with me.
To sit on the curb next to me.
To watch cowboy hats and bolo ties listen to techno music.
To have someone sit and crack the fuck up with me.



    Ms. River taps on the breaks with her foot and slams on the horn with her hand.
"Fucker!" She says. Followed by "Moron!"
I flick my cigarette out of the passenger side window and laugh.
"Get 'em!" I say.
WHERE we are is on I-215, heading east towards Henderson. The asphalt still shines from an earlier rainfall, and Ms. River's personality continues to glow with every mile marker we pass.
Ms. River, she throws both of her hands up in the air and says "Would you fucking go?" Followed by "Please?"
"Get 'em!" I say again.
River looks over at me, over at the smile on face and says, "Shut the fuck up!"  Followed by "Jerk!"
This is what common society would call, "Road Rage".
This is what Ms. River would call, "Driving."
Placing her left hand on her forehead, she shakes her head and says, "Fucking Morons."
This what I would call, "Riding in a car with Ms. River."
To be quite honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's that moment when the angry become the adorable.
Ms. River honks on her horn and extends her middle finger and yells. She does this while I light another cigarette and laugh.
It's that moment when I become the asshole in the passenger seat.
"It's not funny!" River says.
"Yes it is." I say
"You fucking love it." She says.

WHAT I'm doing is holding a cell phone.
Ms. River yells and shouts on the other end, saying phrases like, "Would you fucking go?" and "Hurry the fuck up and drive, please!"
I don't hear the horn honk, but even over the phone I can sense her middle finger extending upright, giving a nice "fuck you!" towards today's vehicular victim.
I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder and spread raspberry jam over a piece of white bread.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm trying to fucking drive!" She says. "But apparently, this fucker doesn't want to."

WHEN I open the passenger door to River's car, the sunset begins to rise over the hood of her silver Honda sedan.
It's the day after Thanksgiving, Black Friday and Ms. River hasn't had her coffee yet.
Maggie Mcaggie jumps into the front passenger seat, sits and waits for me to close the door behind her. I walk around to the rear, drivers side door, open and take my place
Maggie Mcaggie, or Mcgags as River calls her, watches as I walk from front passenger side, to the rear driver side door and take my place.
Maggie's look say's
"Ha!"
Her looks says
"Look at me!"
Her looks says
"I'm the one in front!" Followed by "Mother Fucker!"
River, Mcgags and I take off down the parking lot towards the entrance/exit to the complex.
Just out of the entrance, pokes the hood of a green Ford Taurus.
The three of us sit, and idle behind a blinking right turn signal.
Compact cars, four door sedans and lifted up pickup trucks continue to pass by, in front of us. One by one, these cars drive by, on their way to discount prices and long checkout lines.
Finally, we spot a break in traffic.
The three of us continue to sit and idle, watching as holiday cheer and door buster prices continue to roll on by.
Ms. River curls her fingers around the steering wheel and separates each word with a slight pause.
"This...is...fucking...retarded!" She says.
The snap of a car horn comes from underneath the sunlight hood.
"Move!" River says. "Fuckster!"
I pop my head up from the back seat. "I love it when you say that word."
"What word?" She says "Fuckster?"
"Yes." I say, "Fuckster."
River lays on her horn again and shouts, "Fucking... go!" Followed by "Must...get...coffee."

WHO I'm talking to is Brent Newbry. Brent is the Director of Sales for Lodging and Dynamics, a hospitality company based out of Salt Lake.
I stand in front of the Bellegio, in front of it's man-made pond and tell Brent I hope he has a safe drive down from Salt Lake City.
A large group of tourists stand behind me and watch as a large fountain dances to a Shania Twain song.
A silver Honda crosses through the intersection of Flamingo and Las Vegas Blvd, headed towards me and Shania Twain.
I step towards the curb and wave my hand, like I'm signaling a taxi.
"Hi." I say.
I tell my cell phone I'll be there at 6:30, at the Marriott in Henderson.
Inside the car, Ms. River throws a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on my lap.
"Nobody knows how to fucking drive in this town." She says.
I unwrap the cellophane from my flip top box of cigarettes.
"How was your day?" I ask.
"Fucking busy." She says.
We drive around the block, and head back towards Flamingo.
River tells me "this person" and "that person" have been blowing up her phone all day. Asking her to do "this thing" and "that thing."
"Don't people understand that I'm fucking busy!" She says.
We continue to move down Flamingo, zigzagging from one lane to another. Feeling a sudden urge to smoke I pull a Marlboro from my flip top box and light it.
"Sorry you've had a rough day" I say.
River's fingers curl tight around the steering wheel, holding our lives at ten and two, she says, " Fucker!"
Her middle finger extends an inch from the front window. "Suck a fuck!" She says.

WHY I laugh, it's because some asshole has blocked River and I from moving into the right lane.
Why I laugh is because River doesn't give a fuck. She moves forward, finding a small gap in between this asshole's car and the car ahead of him, she wedges her silver Honda in front of the asshole, in front of his extended middle finger and shouts of rage.
This asshole, he rolls down his window and yells, "Really? He says "You're gonna fucking block me like that?"
I roll the passenger side window down and poke my head halfway out of the car.
"Really?" I say "You're gonna let something like this ruin whole fucking night?" I say "You're gonna get that worked up over something like this?" I say "Whatever makes you happy man."
This asshole, the one behind the wheel of his black Cadillac Escalade, his arm reaches down and his hand grabs his inside door handle.
This is when I think
"Oh fuck"
This is when I think
"He's gonna get out the car."
This is when I think
"Please let me at least get one good punch in, in front of my girlfriend."
This is when a hand from the passenger seat of his black SUV reaches over and rests on this assholes shoulder.
After a moment of silence, the traffic begins to move and River and I speed away, in front of the asshole with the rational wife.

Where I am is sitting on a curb, lighting another cigarette, wishing Ms. River was here. The funny thing about River and I, is we make the world our theater. We find a way to find amusement wherever we go.
We dance in streets and run through grocery stores. We yell random things at random people and shoot random streetlights with our fingers. We make love in random places like public bathrooms and outside patios. The thing that isn't random about River and I, is River and I.
Sitting on the curb in front of my house, I wish River was here. Watching the world together, with open eyes and open hearts.

Three more days...

I was a leach, it sucked.

     Ms. River sends me a text, letting me know Robin Williams has passed away.
I tell her I know.
I just found out about the news a few minutes before River sends me the text.
The news is heartbreaking and it saddens me.
What I feel like saying is everything and nothing.
Nothing because I'm speechless.
Everything because he's done so much, affected so many people.
Ironically, there's even a tie between Robin Williams, Ms. River and myself.
The writer's group we started, were River and I came together was started with the phrase,
"Oh captain my captain..." The well known phrase from The Dead Poets Society.

Robin Williams
July, 1951-August, 2014



     What I am right now is a leach.

     Where I am right now,is on a couch, in Ms. River's living room.
Sitting directly across from me, is The Professor. We call him this on account that he teaches at the College of Southern Nevada, and is in fact, an actual professor.
River and I refer to him simply as "prof".
"What are you aware of?" Prof wants to know.
"I'm aware of the dirt on my stomach." I say "I feel afraid for my life." I say
Prof moves forward, to the edge of his seat and says, "If you could talk right now, what would you say?"
I close my eyes and get back into character. "I'm just a damsel in distress." I say
Opening my eyes, I look around the room. River sits on the floor, to my left and laughs.
When I speak my voice is high. I do my best to mimic a female leach, in distress.
What we're doing is called a "Dream Workshop."
This is the forth Sunday the three of us have gotten together, to talk about a dream, something with an Anima or Animus.
Something with significance.
With emotional reaction.
Something with Curiosity.
The professor, he wants to know if I'm aware I might die soon, if I'm aware there are a large group of ants, just around the corner, waiting to smother and kill me.
"Yes," I say "I don't know how, but I do know my life as a leach is in danger."

Inside the oven, sits a whole chicken. 
Around the whole chicken sits whole potatoes and chopped up carrots. All of these sit inside a large baking pot, baking at 400 degrees.
I grab a towel from the laundry room next door, and pull out the pot, setting it on top of the oven.
The digital clock above the stove reads 12:45. The professor should be here in fifteen minutes. I take a kitchen knife, and cut a slit into the breast of the chicken. The meat looks white and moist. I take a fork and check a potato. It feels firm in the middle. Needing another twenty minutes or so, I place the pot back into the oven, and wipe down the counters.
What I'm doing is getting lunch ready.
This is the forth Sunday the three of us will meet. To talk about dreams and feelings and what we're aware of's.
This is the forth Sunday we'll eat lunch to break the ice. The warm up before the workout.
I fold blankets over the couch, and toss little pieces of trash inside a plastic Walmart bag.
These pieces of trash by the way, River calls them my "Scruff Crumbs".
So I find myself picking up little pieces of Scruff Crumbs, pieces consisting of Jolly Rancher wrappers and the cellophane from cigarette packs, when River walks through the door.
She wants to know how the chicken is. I tell her it's not done yet, and tie the handles from the plastic Walmart bag in a knot. 
The digital clock on the microwave reads 1:02 when the professor knocks on the door. 
I say hello as I pass him in the doorway. Throwing the garbage in the dumpster, I stop and say hello to the maintenance man responsible for the apartment. His look tells me he doesn't recognize me, but he say's hello anyway. 
Back inside the apartment, River and the professor are standing in the kitchen, eating a plate of chicken and potatoes. 
Not having eaten anything all day, I pull a drumstick off the whole chicken and load up on potatoes. 
For the next ten minutes we stand and eat and talk about Carl Jung and Freud. 
Prof tells us that he once read, Freud had made a pass on Jung's wife. This is only after he tells us he had a dream about having an affair with Jung's wife. 
After a quick cigarette, River and I sit down on the couch, while The Professor takes a seat in his usual chair, directly across from us. 
"So who's going first?" Profs asks. 
River looks over at me. 
She gives me that look that says,
"You've got a good dream."
She gives me that look that says,
"You're going first."
She gives me that look that says,
"Don't be a fucking pussy." 
"I guess I'll go first." I say. 
I intertwine my fingers and push out my palms, popping my knuckles. 
Taking a deep breath, I tell The Professor all about my dream. 
What I am is a butterfly. 
I flap my wings and float around the ceiling of a hotel room. 
Prof wants to know what I'm aware of. 
"I'm aware of freedom." I say. "I'm aware of the air underneath my wings and around me." 
What I am now is a bird, sitting in a nest, hanging from the same ceiling in the corner of the hotel room. 
What I'm aware of is tranquility. Sitting in my nest, looking down at everything else, I feel as if everything's going to be alright. As if nothing bad can happen while I'm up here, in my safe haven. 
Next I'm a bug, slowly crawling over the carpet. 
I'm laid back taking my time with everything. 
Then I'm a Hillbilly, outside of a rest stop, making fun a leach, crawling in the dirt. 
I feel slow and dumb and slightly racist. 
Now I'm myself. Walking alongside a leach. Where I am right now is outside of a rest stop, walking on a dirt trail, trying to escort a leach back to the same hotel where I was a bird and a bug and a butterfly. 
Prof leans over in his chair, looks at me and asks, "Are there any of these characters that stand out to you?" He says "Anyone in particular you want to focus on?"
I tell him not that I can think of. 
The prof thinks for a minute. "I'd like to focus on the leach." He says "I think there's something there." 

What I am right now is a leach. 
I'm aware of the dirt against my stomach as I slither around a dirt trail, trying to move forward. 
I hold my arms to my side and move my torso in a S, trying to mimick this same slithering motion. 
This leach, it feels like royalty. It feels like a princess, like it's important that it stays alive, makes it back to her safe haven. 
Where I am right now is slithering around the corner of a dirt trail, spotting a group of ants, waiting to smother and kill me. 
What I feel is anxiety. 
"Now..." The prof says "Tell me how you would respond as the ants begin to attack you." 
I tell him I would respond with something like, "Help me..." I say "Maybe please help me." 
I place my hands on my knees and lean forward. 
"Maybe get the fuck off me." 
"Now, let's go back to you, being you." Prof says. "How do you feel." 
"I feel sad." I say. "Like there's nothing I can do." 
I tell him I try to brush the ants off the leach but more ants continue to come. I tell prof that it's useless. Nothing's working and I can hear the leach die. I tell him the leach's voice slowly fades out and it dies. 
This is the forth Sunday we meet and talk about our dreams. 
We sit with the prof and talk about leaches and dirt trails and safe havens. 
We eat chicken and potatoes and talk about sleeping with Carl Jung's wife and smoke cigarettes. 
We do this on Sundays at 1:00 in the afternoon and I absolutely love it. 
I look over to my left, at Ms. River and say, "You're next."
"Nope." She says. 

For the Alliance!

     It will be a week tomorrow. A week from being able to see Ms. River. Being able to place my hands in her hands and soak up her deep blue, meditterean eyes.
Today my heart is a calendar, check marking little boxes, waiting for the day I circle, the day I see her again.
Today my heart turns back almost two months. Turns back to the last time I saw her. The last time I held her her in my arms.
My left arm over her left shoulder makes everything that's wrong in this world, right.


     Where I am right now is in Darnassus. This is the capital city for the Night Elf of the Alliance.
What I'm doing is running around, looking for the class trainer, trying to level up my abilities.
Ms. River follows behind me, whispering to me she says, "I think it's over this way."
I stop and spin around. Three hundred and sixty degrees, I spin past vibrant buildings and terraces made from tree's and thick vines.
The atmosphere of Darnassus is quiet, somewhat melancholic.
I stop and let Ms. River take over. I stand and pause, watching her tall slender, elvish frame jog by and take the lead.    
Ms. River leads us south, over a causeway and into the temple gardens. 
River leads us into a door, and down a set of steps. This is what's called the "Cenarion Enclave. It reminds me of an underground World War 2 bunker. Instead of Nazi's and short wave radio, it's full of Druids and tiny, star like orbs floating through the air. 
Ms. River leads me over to a night elf named Shenthul. He would be my rogue trainer. 
"Ha!" Ms. Rivers whispers. 
"You were right." I whisper back. 
"Say it!" She says. 
"You were so right baby." I whisper. "You were so, so right!" 
I look away from my keyboard, and over to Ms. River and slightly dig my fingers into her rib cage.
"Don't!" She cries
"Don't what" I ask
"Don't tickle me!" She says. 
I turn my attention back to my laptop and choose "Stealth" for my next ability. 
"It's what you get! I say. 
"For what? For being right?" She says
I stand in front of my trainer and choose my first ability. 
I choose Garote. 
I choose Vanish. 
I choose to place my hand over Ms. River's knee cap and squeeze down. 
"Fucker!" She says. 
I choose Cheap Shot and realize I'm all out of points to spend. 

The Previous evening...


The status bar on my computer screen tells me I have 4 hours and 23 minutes. I look over at Ms. River and want to know what her screen says.
"3 hours, 45 minutes."She says. "Mine's going faster than yours."
"So." I say.
"So...you suck!" She says.
I look back at the screen, and watch. The status bar ticks slowly towards the right.
What we're doing is downloading a bootlegged version of "World Of Warcraft."
What we're doing is waiting anxiously for the download to complete.
What we're doing is completely "geeking out."
Ms. River's cell phone rings, taking our focus away from anticipation and total geekdom.
It's Elena, calling to see what River and I are up to.
After a minute or two of conversation, Ms. River hangs up the phone and wants to know if I want to go with her to pick up Elena.
"Sure." I say.
The thing about Ms. River and I, we both share a lot of the same interests.
Like writing
Like reading.
Like Multiplayer Online Roleplaying games.
Like World Of Warcraft.
We both put on our coats and head out the door.
Inside the car, River wants to know what kind of character I'm going to roll. 
I tell her I'll probably play a Rogue. "That's all I've really played." I say "What are you going to roll?" I ask. 
"I think I might be a Priest." She says. "Priests are fucking sexy". 
We drive to the other side of Henderson, towards Elena, away from status bars and online gaming. 

Sitting in River's living room, with River and Elena, I check the status on my laptop. 
1 hour, 45 minutes. 
River, she suggests we go outside, give each other a word and write. 
I completely agree, thinking this might take my mind off of my night elf rogue, and his leather working profession. 
Staring off, into an alternate reality I think of a bright future. One with tens of thousands of gold, and a strong night elf heritage. I think of songs the good people of Azeroth will sing about me, tens and thousands of years later. 
I stop myself and think about what a big, fucking geek I am, right now, in Ms. River's living room. 
My feet push me off the couch, and head outside, out to River's patio. 

The patio we sit on, has a long piece of carpet, laid over the concrete floor below. 
Each of us sit down on the carpet and smoke cigarettes, flicking the ash into a makeshift ashtray, made from the lid of a Hazelnut Cookie jar.
We each give and get a word, and we write. 
River gives me the word, "Streetlight". I take my time and write about city streets, during winter time. I write about snowflakes, how they fall into view, how they suddenly appear under the glowing, golden frame from the streetlights above. 
What I want to write about, would be the 10 and 20 man raids River and I will be able to go on soon. 
What I want to write about is the auction house, the buying and selling of items for profit. 
The three of us go around, reading our word and the story it surrounds. 
I take a moment to look at the status bar on my laptop. 
0 hours, 42 minutes. 
The butterfly's in my stomach spread their wings, spreading anticipation and geekdom all throughout my insides. 
After another forty minutes of smoking cigarettes and writing, River and I notice the download is almost complete. 
The three of us put on our coats and head out the door, on our way to Elena's, on our way to Night elves, to Azeroth, to 20 man raids. 

The next day...

Out of points, I walk over to the corner of the room, where Ms. River stands, leveling up her abilities. 
I stand behind and decide to dance. 
I twirl and spin, and thrust my hips towards River and her night elvish ass. 
"Fucking dork!" She whispers. 
Making a sexual comment, I dance one more time, spinning and twirling and thrusting my hips towards her ass again. 
"You finished yet?" I whisper.
"Just about." She says. "Are you finished?"  
I type /dance on my laptop and watch as my Character dances and thrusts. This I cannot get enough of. 
I sit there and laugh and dance, while Ms. Rivers finishes leveling up her character. 
I lean over and kiss River on the neck. She spins her head towards mine and we kiss. This is when I dig my fingers back into her rib cage. 
"Don't!" She says. 
I place my hands up, underneath her shirt, and we kiss and pull layers of clothes off each other.

My character continues to dance and thrust in the background.