to have a little feminine sob-fest. During which time my suitemate (let’s call her Sunnyhappyfluffybear) was inordinately kind and understanding as I wailed unintelligible and random words like “fence,” “shoulder,” and “I hate cats.”       I’m sure Sunnyhappyfluffybear, bless her heart, didn’t have the faintest idea what these snot-garbled words might have meant. At the time I didn’t either; or at least I didn’t understand them in the larger scheme of things. I think I have a massive fear of being alone. ALONE. I really enjoy time by myself and am quite a solitary person by nature, but being alone scares the shit out of me. I hate cats, but I was (and perhaps am still) firmly convinced that one day I will be that crazy old lady with wild hair and ninety cats. Someday I will die, and my cats will gnaw on my bloated and discolored body until a neighbor notices a smell and calls the police. Cheery thought ain’t it.       I think this is pretty universal…or I hope very much it is…it would certainly make me feel better. Self-interest is life’s one predictable factor. Though I believe we probably really do love the people we say we really love, there’s a fair amount of fear and self-interest dictating our relationships. No one wants to be alone, unloved, and unappreciated. So we’re all desperately seeking someone to be with, someone to love us, someone to appreciate the things we do. And occasionally this causes us to act like total assholes.       Humanity’s desire for love looks a little like greed. I want this person to be mine, to love me best. And we all run around like headless, retarded chickens looking for friends, lovers, spouses, and random strangers to fill this stupid little hole inside us; most of the time we don’t even know what we’re doing or why we’re doing it. Flirting, “courting,” random sex acts, etc. I think are mostly our fucked-up attempts to find someone—anyone—to save us from our aloneness. Also. Many of us are sexually frustrated, but that’s another rant for another day.       I am not about to stray into the idiotic and insipid world of dating theology, but I do think it is fair to say that this is probably a God thing. I cannot find true love, approval, and acceptance anywhere but in God. We are, without exception, fucked up people leading fucked-up little lives. No matter how much we try to pin high holy motives on our action, this is how life is. As hard as I try (or they try) I’m yet to find a friend, a boyfriend, a parent, a sibling, or anyone else who doesn’t disappoint me at least once a day. And if we had time, I’d explain all the thousand ways I disappoint myself. I cannot get myself out of this mess I’ve made. I’m alone and keep having these nightmares I’m Eleanor Rigby. Mushrooms of Retort By Irwin Schweenie       Peering over the safeway mushrooms I spy a customer I once had. Yes, he's the wretch who once flaunted his superior tanned skin, dentist-perfect white teeth, sun glasses, and his Rolex when we had none. I was showing him a watch he requested to see, when he pulled out his cell phone and began talking to someone loudly, while strutting past showcase after showcase. I see him and glare; this time he's no john and I'm no whore, I have the upper hand. I hope he doesn't recognize me, shit. Our eye's meet over the mushrooms. I don't greet, smile, or ask impotent questions. He sees my sterile face, I see his vacant constitution. Somehow he is surprised and insulted that I don't pander... wander on you lost coward. You can pretend for awhile all you saw here was produce, but we'll meet again.

Masturbation By Cpt. Willard       It was dawn or dusk, I cannot be sure which. Whether it was now beginning or sullen end, I could not discern. I seemed to have misplaced my compass, perhaps in my years underground. However, it was the blue-gray shadow cast upon my path that made me certain at least of uncertainty; of light that could not triumph and dark that was all too cowardly to confront. Either way, it was the hour, the time to set about my work.       I had a shabby sort of pick-axe, which was beyond even adequate condition, but would do for brute work anyway. Its tip was worn and its handle was adorned with splintered wood. I stood on a cliff, staring into the expanse that the old ones called Sheol. I began chipping away at this cliff. The progress came slowly and the chips were little pathetic things. The skin on my hands became completely embedded with wooden slivers from the handle. On the upswings, I occasionally smacked my head so that it was spotted here and there with bumps and bloody lacerations.       I continued this way for hours, maybe days and weeks. It really is hard to tell when you become involved in a job, you know, even if it is an unpleasant one. I stopped many times to whimper like an injured puppy, lamenting my arduous task, but I always continued on after a bit.       At last, I was standing on a piece of cliff no wider or longer than my two feet. With steady downward strokes, I began to demolish it. Each time I screamed in pain because, more often than not, I would strike my bare feet, slicing the tender flesh and breaking many bones. I had shoes earlier, but had tossed them over the edge long ago in one of those weepy temper tantrums I spoke of earlier.       It had gotten to the point where I was painfully supporting myself with my big toe which rested on a small nub of rock. As salt-water regret rolled down my cheeks, I raised the pick-axe in one last act of defiance. It came down swiftly and the rock offered little resistance.       I had expected, of course, to immediately plummit into the abyss. Somehow, though, a hand had grasped my left arm as soon as I demolished the remainder of the cliff.       My eyes had been clinched shut, but I opened them and looked up. A golden-faced figure stood above me. There was a bright white light all around him so that he was too bright to see. Yet, every detail in his face was somehow discernable. I knew his name very well, but did not know how to say it. His grip was firm and unyielding.       I opened my mouth slowly, as if to speak, as if to explain myself, but I said nothing, just hung there with my mouth wide open. I then set my teeth around my arm, bit down, and began gnawing my left arm off just below the place where it was held. I continued, feeling pain I had never known. I chewed on and looked up again. I was crying and he was crying too, but he wept much, much more than I did.       Father, forgive me, for I know not what I do.