Singular Descriptive

I wouldn't call myself a stalker, per se.

But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?

There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.

Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.

Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.