Saturday, September 20, 2003

I've examined my subconscious and am fairly certain that what happened last last night was not some sort of retribution. My elder stalker, a richly brought-up man who is perpetually slumming as a barkeep of a low-rent, scuzzy joint, and who obsessed about me at one time enough to send several bouquets of long-stemmed roses to my office, rushed out of his own bar last night with a smoking microwave oven in his hands. Muttering, as he moved towards his car parked in front of his shithole, Try to be nice and people try to burn the place down. I had left the smokey back room where my pals were still playing pool and trying to open windows and was sitting at a crappy plastic table talking to a few random people. Polly had given me a rose. I wondered what happens when a rose is microwaved. There was a microwave in the corner, unplugged. I plugged it in and set it on cook or whatever after putting the rose in the middle of it and concurrently noting that there were several paper towels stuffed in there and a rim of thick white grease was around its door. Cooked and imploded, that's what happened. Then, after a few minutes, I smelled smoke and the paper towels were smoking and I said to Mark, Well I didn't think anything of the paper towels, don't people use them for microwaving. I know nothing of microwaves and am a firm believer that slow cookin' is good cookin'. So eventually we all left the shithole and it was way time to be sleeping and the owner/stalker had been watching me and I was not certain he knew it was me or not as he was in his cups and I was purposely sending out the vibe that I was not who I am/was at that moment - a scientist, a just-off-the-dancefloor-across-the-way hellion.
I remain.
The microwave does not.
Your Perfect Nancy.

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