jamdye

I spend the past three days a distraught, but productive, horny little hermit. The only thing that gets me out of the house on the fourth day (today) is the promise of a tooth cleaning with a new dentist. There's nothing quite like telling your life story while your forefront orifice is examined, and drool is wiped from your chin. But enough about that.

On my drive downtown, I nearly cause my first accident of the day while checking out a hot rocker boy on his bike. I get downtown, and it's like a drug. I have a faint remembrance of this effect when I go on my hermit sessions: that while I may be miserable at the time, it'll get much, much better the longer I wait. And today is incredible. The situation is probably helped by this amazing summer weather, the gorgeous location, and all of that, but I grew up here, I'm dull to it most of the time. But today I'm awestruck. Every single person I pass gives me a hard-on. Totally hot. It's as if every strange, beautiful hermit in town has come out for the day. All the girls are wearing little tops and tiny skirts, like some exotic birds who know just the right time to expose their new plumage. My god. I stalk this pale boy with slick black hair in his eyes as he walks several blocks puting up fliers, until he gets into his cheap little black car and drives away. Lost him.

I eventually decide to go to the elitist artsy punk coffee shop, since I fit in pretty nicely despite my lack of friends. I sit under a tree watching this punk gathering of tattoos and black clothing as they take turns holding this tiny baby, me scribbling little gestures of them while sipping on some ice tea. It's too pretty, all the trees in bloom, the arched victorian wooden doorways, the sun in my eyes. Everything's so well situated for privacy that I have to struggle to actually see anybody, from the irish punk built like a brick to the hot dykes in the corner smiling at me. I want to seduce every one of them. A couple behind me are reading textbooks on German history and occasionally cracking jokes about bolshevik rule, it's awesome.

I'm so impressed by everyone's beauty. So tripping.

I go inside and sit by the counter so I can draw everyone as they stand and order their drinks. The guy behind the counter is an extremely social gay guy with a mohawk. His music selection is exquisite, and then he rushes into the back room yelling at whoever's working back there "SQUAGELS, YOU IDIOT! SQUARE BAGELS!!!" and i'm completely crushed. He flirts with the fashionable yuppie gay guys, the cute punk girls in their itsy customized skirts and doc martins, nobody talks to me but i smile at a few, scribbling everyone who catches my eye.

I drive home blasting The Cramp's "Bad Girl" through my open windows as I fly up the windy mountain roads, warm breeze blowing through my hair, as I grin, sporting a shiny new erection for the world.