Bumpy

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People look at my face and say, “Are you growing a beard?” And I don’t reply: Is that cause for alarm? Or: What’s it to you? Or: Aren’t you observant. Rather, I tell them I’m taking a break from shaving. Which is true. I miss Cindi. I miss both of us clinging to each other, naked, in the dark of her apartment. I miss sucking her bumpy tits. What I really need, right now, is some caffeine. Yes, that’s right, Cindi’s tits were (and, presumably, remain) bumpy all around the nipples. I suppose they’re officially known as “areolas.” So: bumpy areolas. And I miss them. But she was a smoker and a bit of a racist and somewhat out of shape and not terribly bright. All that, and she liked to lick the clouds, too. Time and again I admonished her for taking advantage of her height and sullying the troposphere with her taste buds. She accused me of harboring an inferiority complex just because I can fold myself neatly inside a Pringles potato chip canister. An empty one. (Are they called canisters?) No, that’s not true. Cindi never accused me of anything. Although she picked a long strand (of hair) from my coat once and noted that it didn’t belong to her (and it obviously didn’t belong to me). I’m sorry. I can worship a woman who is less honest than me. I can. I have. I do. I will. But for the life of me I don’t see how I can worship a woman who is less clever than me. And seeing that I’m no Oscar Wilde—indeed, seeing that Mr. Wilde himself would quicky tire of my company, as most anybody with even half his wit has/does/would—that’s not asking much. Really, the only thing Cindi and I had in common? We both like women. No, we both like candy corn. No. Seemingly, I am the only one alive on Earth who enjoys an occasional kernel of candy corn. That’s how you can tell an extraterrestrial from a terrestrial. I know what you’re thinking, but Spielberg was paid off by the Extraterrestrial Lobby to go with Reese’s Pieces. That’s the truth, Baby Ruth. But Cindi also fancied what hung between my legs. She even gave it a flattering nickname—much too flattering, in fact.* Anyway, I’m not shaving because of Cindi. I’m not shaving because the blades I like to use—“Mach 3” they’re called—are too damn expensive. This needs to be a big writing day. I need to get some serious work done. But first I need some damn caffeine. 

8 February 2001 

*[For the record: Cindi loved me and she wanted to please me (an all too tall order to fill) and she was way more than I deserved.] 

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