Our each and every cell is a battle scar.

I never want to write about my teenage years. There's so much I can't recall.

Everyone grows up hearing "When I was your age" or "When I was young..." followed by some pathetic tale of how technology and information has somehow devastated the emotional integrity of that person. You listen. You get it. What can you say? Getting over it
- is easier said than done. Our each and every cell is a battle scar. Hellraisers, each and every one of us, choking down fistfulls of human on every block like zombies stuck in a compost.

My equivalent to missing soda jerks and farming the land for a steady income- is a matter of the American shifting cultural energies haunting me as a child and stuffing me into a pre-paid coffin as an adult. A coffin of my choosing. I want the velvet lining. I want the pearlescent knob. I want the patch under the oak tree. I want the headstone to be edible. Whatever. I want my bones to be burned. I want King Kong to jerk off on my ashes and force you to sign for them.

I suppose I am lonely here. No more than anyone else probably. My relationship to everyone on this island is different than the relationships of other residents here. I get introduced as "The Doctor." I'm no doctor. I detest the mechanics of IT ALLtoo much to be a doctor. I screen my phone calls because 9 out of 10 calls has something to ask of me rather than offer me.. (not that answering the phone is about the eternal reception). I do get into the science behind medicine. Callouses make diabetic ulcers calling for amputation. Salt kills bacteria. Don't give Nitroglycerine to someone taking Viagra. Emergency Medicine is depressingly thrilling, but not here. No thrill here. Not under these circumstances. Not when I have to be the medic for an extended family of people who will always be predjudiced against me and use me when it suits their convenient disposable jock. It's not like I get out of the ambulance or punch out at work and I never see my patients again. They visit when they are drunk and tell me tragic stories all the while never mentioning how I couldn't revive their 65 year old brother..... And that's not the only barrier to us ever loving each other. Fuck it all. Boo Hoo. Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe you demonstrate love, by tormenting the creatures around you who share enough history with you to tolerate your unrelenting hate and fluctuating forgiveness... and maybe I show mine by giving you the room to do it... Yeah. Truthfully, that's likely for reasons I don't care to share with you... in this perpetual state of bombed out playing fields.

My favorite part of the male anatomy is the "snuff box". Always has been, mostly when I am watching the muscles grip the stick shift of a car I am riding passenger in- going somewhere I have never been-listening to something I have never heard feeling ..... bristly and deeply motivated even on dark and unknown roads I am confident being lost on and want to have at you on.... Capturing time can't be done, but I am willing to over-compensate often by leaving a trail of fermented crumbs. Typically, they are scavenged and kicked aside. Personally, that kind of battle turns me on, and with you on board, Where couldn't we "overcome"?

Last night I had a dream involving murderers, hotel security, elevators, towers, and my child hiding safely with my mother behind the door of a room only I knew the number to. When is it okay to enter a room knowing you may be leading an enemy into the fold but you are too tired to fight without reinforcements? Too exhausted to hold off the fight any longer?

Cleared the forest of the trees-have you?

If I had to jump in a time capsule, you wouldn't have the latch locked down long before I was carving out Anti-You messages into my flesh for Alien eyes. I can almost guarantee, "they" would still take your side. It's just how it goes. No hard feelings. One day I'll shoot some hard feelings your way though. so you have a way to measure my impact on you if you needed some help in the me-you-math department.