She got burned, and I’m sorry for that, but think of what I’ll be able to do now. Her dreams were small—mainly concerning me and her—but mine, well you know me. I want the damn moon and the stars and even the planets. Now I can make it happen. Zakim Bridge? Watch them rename it the Jeff Turkin Memorial Bridge when I’m done.
In which corporate profiles are exposed, from the Excuse Maven to the Former Employee of Another, Oft-Mentioned Company. Read carefully: you just might find your own personality lurking in here somewhere.
…a perfect project for me to groom into something worth celebrating, the synergy of my sundry human skills and the desire of you to be taken there, there you go, too rapid for my arrival, possibly in wait for a cloistered ardor…
And San Diego was home for him, undoubtedly. He embraced the culture (”sunshine with a lobotomy,” as the East Coast transplants call it). He built a life through determination and intensity. He got himself through college. He became a star for University of California-San Diego Masters swim team. He built up a cadre of friends and a palimpsest of tales, stories of absurdity and hilarity so many layers deep that their retelling never got old, and never ceased to be funny. He was in a great place.
For anyone with me (i.e., for those of you who walk upright, qualify for mammal status, and have the slightest semblance of a soul), a few suggestions. First, let’s retract the term “litterbug” from the lexicon. Is there a more unassuming criminal label that this?
You are what’s right. How you must be in the night, so imperfect, so flawed, so unbelievably human. I am changed when I open myself to this. I want this more than I want the spring.
I worry about what next. When so much of our lives is so close to ourselves, how can we understand ourselves? How can we appreciate our unique thread of existence when we can’t see down the length our own lines, let alone the other threads around us?
He likes her. But she, she likes men with a probability of jail time and the possibility of no parole. She is in search of such inamoratos not with the intention of her mind or the guidance of her heart, but through the raging power of an id untouched by the ego, super or otherwise.
“The owl, for all its feathers, was a-cold.”
That’s from a poem we’ll read together soon.
So much to come, baby, so much for you
when your unburdened face reanimates,
a million untold stories to unfold.
Maybe it’s just me. I know the saying that “just being there for a friend is what’s important,” but isn’t that like getting a Participant ribbon for coming in last in a race? I’d feel like a better friend, a real friend, if I could say something worth a damn in such a dire time. I can be there for him anytime. It’s meaningful words I wanted to share, and I floundered like a chump. A member of my life finds himself in the worst way of his life, and this is the time that I have nothing to say?
Something that has been utterly conquered by Dr. Phil can no longer be considered deadly. No, I’m not talking about daytime TV, though afternoon programming is surely among the world’s most hideous scourges. I refer instead to the seven deadly sins. (Cue intense orchestral music each time I type that phrase for optimal effect, please.) The seven [...]
Disclaimer: I’ve never worn ladies underwear. Sorry, that’s a disclaimer for another article. I meant to write, Disclaimer: I’ve never read the magazine, so I can only hazard a guess that it covers vague themes of safe empowerment and empowered safety.
The idea of green ethics is as stupid as promoting calorie ethics, or hydration ethics, or tortilla chip ethics. What is ethical about saving our earth? Nothing. We are making these changes now because we have to.
I cannot get away from this because I no longer recall what I am running from. That’s a good gig there, being chased by sad little demons unable to be remembered, or running for so long that it’s less a compulsion than a tedious habit.
*Jason Leary works in downtown Boston, at a location that is somehow at the borders of the Financial District, Downtown Crossing, South Boston, Chinatown, and the mythical Leather District. While the Big Dig was beneficial for most (not including national taxpayers), Leary knows only pain from the project, namely from an enormous brick-covered vent that was built in front of his window, allowing only 35 seconds of sunlight at 6:15 a.m. On the plus side, he still has a job.