I accidentally stepped on my younger dog's foot tonight, after dinner with my gal, and the wench said to me, "why did you do that?" as if I had intentionally stepped on my poor dog's paw. The stupidity of such an accusation hit me like I had been slapped in the face with a glass pitcher full of ice water. It was best to end the evening on that rather sour note. Dinner had been a study in contradictions, the usual male female I say A, she says B discourse. Why do things have to always fall into a pattern of meciocre ludicrousness?

Ha. Is this anyway to further a positive, loving relationship? I'm just a pile of doggy doo doo underneath my daddy's shoe, like he always said. I can't rise above. I can't stay positive. I am wallowing in the quagmire of self-pity and self-loathing. I hate me. I hate you. The sun isn't shining; it is always dark over here in this here part of town.

Dinner was good. The little lady ran her cute little ass up and down and around the kitchen for me, opening a can of corn, twisting the top on a jar of applesauce and using the George Forman Grill to cook up some pork chops. What would PETA think about us eating some pork chops? I think that PETA is such a militant bunch that we should send them all over to Iraq, let them get mean and fascist with the Taliban. Pamela Anderson can lead the charge; take Tommy and Kid Rock with her. She lives in a fucking glass house. Kill animals. Be nice to human beings, mother fuckers.

I discovered that I don't like papaya, tonight. The little lady asked me if I did, before dinner, and I said "yes," figuring that a papaya was much like a mango. It wasn't. I have never wanted to spit mango onto the plate in front of me. I ate the nasty first bite of the putrid orange fruit. Girlfriend said, "I thought you said that you like them?"

"Well, I thought that I did," was all I could think to respond to her. She seemed to think that she had scored some sort of point or points with her question.

Is "love" the the process of accumulating points at the mercy of the one you are in "love" with? Is "love"some sort of weird game whereby you have to prove that the woman is smarter than the man, if you are the woman, and where you have to prove that the man is smarter than the woman, if you are the man?

I hope not.

This lady and I are about to enter into co-habitation, we're about to share one abode, live-in-sin, as Jerry Fuckwell might say. (Or is that Fucksnotsowellatall?) What am I in for? What is she in for? I'm scared that maybe she gets along with my cat, who has already moved in, better than she will get along with me.

Why can't I own half of Manhattan, and five airplanes, like John Travolta does? l could save the planet then.

......

When I got to the flower section of the grocery store, tonight, the shelves were bare. The only flower you could have bought would have looked a lot like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Remember that tree, all ugly and scrawny. You wouldn't want to give that to mom, now would you. It just wouldn't be prudent.

I think that I've been in a pissy mood all day because it was Mother's Day. Mother's Day is a grim reminder that, 30 years ago, either my mother deserted me, or I deserted her. At this late point in the game, it doesn't really matter who dumped who; does it? I wonder if there are other of you out there who don't harbor warm, fuzzy feelings about your mother?

Am I alone?

"Cold turkey got me by the balls," like John Lennon screamed in one song.

And "Moooooooooooooother you had me, but...." as he whined in another.

Fuck it. I'm going to walk the dogs. Have a nice night.