윤

Immaculately dressed blonde British spy and I solved the mystery behind the whereabouts of the legendary weapon and unearthed it from a burlap cover in an abandoned warehouse; we knew it wouldn’t be easy returning the treasure to her government (despite serving as no basis for its system, since supreme executive power of course derives from a mandate from the masses), so I put her hand on its hilt and hid it under her long coat, holding her closely as we waded through the crowds on the street, separating momentarily to pass when they got densest.

Recurring dream from my past hasn’t bothered me for as long as I can remember (nor competently search), but returned last night: I didn’t get any details, because they’re never important; some brute would grab me by a vulnerable spot, I think this time it was near my armpit but my genitals were a favorite target, and clamp down with such force that left me paralyzed and helpless. Worse, however, is the feeling of shame for such frailty, whether from failing to master challenges to my psyche in my own back yard or develop a modicum of confidence after a lifetime of them. I used to think the pain was manifesting a real inflammation, maybe a bug bite, nocturnal spasm, the wife taking out her frustrations on me in my sleep, or else could it be the guilt from a weekend spent weakly watching playthroughs of Baldur’s Gate 3 on the couch?

No one’s gonna remember this nameless filler for those times in the week when AMC couldn’t air The Walking Dead, but every few years I feel like an underachieving nobody hung up on the past I return to watch all the ones whose lives it shared for its 20-episode run. Cut short? Maybe, nobody cares. The whole show was a big fat zugzwang. I suppose Mrs. Davis attempted something of the sort, but freeyow, was that cast good-looking, their characters too Harry Potter for my idea of Pynchon, and conspiracies nowadays might want to keep a lower profile. Setting it in nearby shitty Long Beach helped, too.

Not the ₩100 blue baseball ones I remember from the 80’s (the sticks would tell you what you hit, single, foul or struck out), but these fucking things kept me from succumbing to the heat earlier this summer, or it was the A/C at all the 7-Elevens and (Nice to) CU’s I got to duck into for them. I mistakenly bought the squeeze pouch version first, but comparing them now I find myself preferring it, maybe less for environmental reasons than for my ever-regressing dexterity.

Ramaswamy and Haley, right, both despicable Republican contenders on the same stage tonight noticeably of Indian origin, am I just lumping them together unfairly with twats like Bobby Jindal and Dinesh D’Souza? 한국 여자 Michelle Steel, Young Kim and 진라 don’t get a free pass, either, but I got to thinking about my Indian friends and acquaintances in high school, most of whom came from strict upbringings and showed it, such as one dude who cosplayed Alex P. Keaton everyday, briefcase and all, and the other guy who killed a salesman for a Camry.

I do keep an eye out for dogs, and this morning as I was making a right onto 166th stopped because there was one halfway into the crosswalk, no owner in sight, no collar visible. A larger one of the same breed and color, maybe its parent, stayed close to the curb next to the car and seemed to be motioning for it to return, which it finally did after the truck behind me honked. We don’t get many strays in these parts, much less partners of them (I suppose they may have been freed upon the death of their elderly master), so I wonder where they got to.