If Only . . . things were not so RUFF . . .

2 HOURS LATER ADDENDUM: This is how BADLY my mind has deteriorated. When I titled and began writing this entry, I MEANT for it to be about my visit to Starbucks today — that was why it was called “If Only…” — YET, as I finished (or thought I had finished) two hours ago, I couldn’t QUITE understand WHY I had titled it “If Only …” — It was only now as I sat on the couch here at Aftermath considering yet another nap because I am so exhausted from thinking about all the naked men I have NOT, and then decided instead to have another cup of coffee and considered opening the box of K-Cups of Starbucks Christmas Blend I bought on my way here  — and thought about Tweeting how SICK it is that I am addicted to Starbucks Holiday Blend — that I remembered — CHARLIE, YOU IDIOT — THE BLOG WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT THE STARBUCKS RECEIPT. WHAT?

receiptI went to Starbucks after the gym, on my way to Aftermath, and needed to add some money to my card to cover the Skinny Vanilla Latte, pumpkin bread, and Christmas Blend K-Cups. My card had $11 remaining on it, plus, I was due a free drink.  My total came to $16 (I think) and so, I gave the cashier a $20 to add to card to cover the extra $5 and leave me with a $15 balance. Whatever she did, the register said she owed me $39,974.98 in change! Thus — IF ONLY.

On another note — I pointed this error out to her and pointed out that my new card balance could NOT be $20 as I owed at least $5.00 from BEFORE the addition — I said I didn’t want her drawer not to balance at end of day or her to get in trouble. She had NO IDEA what she had done or how to fix it and despite my protests, she said, “It’s fine. It’s only a few dollars and as long as I didn’t rip you off.”  I, again, protested and said, “Well, no, I’m getting a deal — but aren’t you going to get in trouble?” She insisted I leave. Ok. I left a $5 tip because, well, someone is going to have to make up the shortage, right?

AND THEN I THOUGHT — “IF ONLY this was one of those ‘Charlie, you’re the lucky winner of a 40-thousand-dollar Starbucks Prize!’ things — you know, that happen to people who are not me? Whatever. I know. Look, I’d settle for a naked man (read the rest of today’s entry that follows — you know, the one I wrote after titling and forgetting WHAT THE FUCK I meant to write about. Shit. I am REALLY losing it. IF ONLY I COULD LOSE IT ENOUGH NOT TO KNOW I HAD LOST IT. Alas. 


I am spending some quality time in Aftermath today with my darling, Judah. We are having these special moments because A (and A) scored tickets to a taping of David Letterman and so are doing an eighteen-hour, Amtrak up-and-back, one-off New York City jauntlet for the Late Show with featured guest, Meryl Streep, dinner, and a Broadway show. Thus, my rising at 6a.m. and Tweet:

I’m up at 6a.m. because someone is going to NYC to see Letterman & a Broadway show. While they & a friend do, I’m watching the dog.

Ruff as in the barking of a dog. And thus my follow-up Tweet:

Order of the Ruff: Those who bark, bow-wow, follow retro 16thc fashion trends, & trump when unable to follow suit. See Avi. I’m also rabid.

I had changed my Twitter photo yesterday to this:

Batman Ruff

The photo comes from here, this Huffington Post article: Superheroes Strike A Pose for 16th Century Flemish Paintings [click to read and see] and it has all sorts of resonance for me as I have long had a Batman complex, and, I am slavishly devoted to the Duchess Goldblatt:

duchess goldblatt

Your Grace [here is Your Grace’s Twitter account: duchessgoldblat – CLICK IT ] is well known for her ruff-age. She complimented me on my new avi. I live for her approval. Not kidding. Really, I do.

She is — admittedly and proudly — fictional. Not, mind you, imaginary. Earlier in the week I bemoaned the following on Twitter:

I was so unpopular as a child/teen, I couldn’t even get any imaginary friends. Now I have lots. Sadly, all in Britain.

Prompted by an event earlier that day during which I was whining about how I had become so un-loved and un-lovable that even my imaginary friends had stopped calling, texting, and Tweeting. Which sentence reminds me:

Oxford commas

I want that t-shirt. Picture was posted by Peter Damien on his Tumblr, Peter Damien [click here] he also Tweeted it. This is his Twitter account: PeterDamien [click him]. I follow him. He does not follow me. I could go on and on about the people I follow who don’t follow me, like Mr. Damien and Elon Green and Nathan Dunbar and Roxane Gay and Daniel Mendelsohn and Julia Murney and … wait, no, but I’m NOT going to go on about those who don’t follow me. Because I AM FOLLOWED by The Duchess Goldblatt, and Elizabeth McCracken and Rafe Posey and Edward Carey and Bethanne Patrick and Mattilda B Sycamore and Pamela Milam and Nate Burnett and Timothy Schaffert and Donna Migliaccio and Will Chancellor and Hope Dellon and Benjamin Dreyer and Alyssa Harad and STOP … see? I have friends. Albeit, I’ve met only two of them IRL, but, so what? I’m better at a distance, like, you know, a stalker?

Speaking of which, I have been trying a new thing this week: Gym in the early a.m. Today was the fourth day this week I went before noon, in fact, today I was there at 7a.m. I must say, when one attends the gym late morning or early afternoon, there are usually a number of fellows displaying themselves in locker room, showers, saunas — not, mind you, necessarily for reciprocity, but, rather, just casually exhibitionist. In my opinion, it is the primary benefit of gym attendance. Alas, the early a.m. hours — while far more crowded — have offered NOT ONE waggling penis or prominently strutted ass. If things don’t pick up– or, towels drop down — I am going to have to return to my afternoon sessions. I mean, all this working out for what? NO NAKED MEN? I don’t think so.

After all, if I wanted NO NAKED MEN, I have all the rest of the hours of my incredibly lonely life with my imaginary-no-longer-speaking-to-me-friends and long-distance Twitter pals NOT BEING NAKED in my presence — jeesh. I’m going to sign off. All this no naked men reminder is making me — well, eager to return to the book I’m reading so I can forget about how absent are naked men from my life.

Back to Judah. My dog. Ruff. Rough.



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