I admit it: I can be a cheesy romantic. Not necessarily the chocolates-in-a-heart-shaped-box with a serenade-in-candlelight-with-rose-pedals kind of cheesy (well, not always). Hopefully more of the creative-surprise-with-a-caress-of-intimacy kind.
Or maybe not. I don't know. You be the judge:
It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.
Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they're small like children's toys.
Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.
"You know how you get an automatic A if one of your roommates commits suicide?"
Sandy frowned. "That's morbid, Sally. Don't say that."
"You're the one who'd need it." Sally snapped her gum. "Didn't you get a D in your last midterm?"
"No… an F…"
"See!"
What if I went to an art school for college? Kim just gave me this challenge:
For your next ramble — "What if…" The topic? Pick a person. ANY person — and play the game of "What if…" things had happened differently with this particular person.
While I could pick some long-lost friend or an ex-girlfriend and give you a real juicy story, I'm not going to. Buy me a beer one day and maybe I'll tell you that story. For now, let's see what would have happened if I had chosen to go to art school for college.
I'm staring at my dad's raised middle finger right now.
Well, not the one on his hand. He gave me this wooden sculpture of a fist with a raised middle finger when I went off for college. Said he had it during his college years, so I might as well have it too.
My family's first family heirloom!
A gun in my face is the last thing I want to see in my home.
Even if it's a puny BB gun.
I don't have much luck with roommates. Beats me why. They've either stolen my CDs, beaten each other up and bled on my sheets, sharpened knives at their desks…
Or pointed a gun in my face.
One of the worst feelings in the world is regret. A blend of guilt and self-disgust with heaps of with sorrow and remorse, its putrid taste lingers on your tongue long after you've forced yourself to swallow.
"You shouldn't worry about the past," a friend said to me. "You can't change it; it's happened already. Think about the future."
I didn't realize it was a date until later that evening.
I had no reason to think it was a date. It was originally going to be her, her sister, and myself going to that comedy show.
A date doesn't have three people. So why would I ever consider it one?
He sucked down the flamer and spat a few drops onto the tablecloth.
This ignited the cloth. The waiter stamped it out with a water glass.
I gently touched her neck. My other hand brushed the back of her hair and cradled her head. As I placed my lips over hers, I delicately tilted her head upwards.
I blew into her mouth. Twice. My eyes concentrated on her chest. I watched carefully as her chest rose.
Then I drew back and looked up.
"Good work, Michael."
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA