that's my mama

i'm sleeping at 6:30 in the evening and the phone rings. it's jenny. i wrote her a letter telling her i'm leaving. and, i don't know, i supppose she doesn't want me to leave. she asked me why; i told her i'm sick of being alone being a foreigner. she asked other questions. where are you going when are you leaving what about your apartment. i don't know she never tells me anything about what she's feeling. if she were with me, i would stay. i would then have someone to share with which to share with which to share. with whom to share. and, lying there, i realized. it's not donna or eve or diana or anyone else i want it's jenny. it's not china, it's the fact that jenny isn't with me. i wrote her a letter from kunming and said "i can't wait to see you." she mistakenly thought i was saying goodbye. she wrote back: why? why? it's the only clue i have that my feelings are returned.

so what do i do? do i search for her in the middle of the night again? do i try to tell her on the phone? do i go back to the states? will i be any better? am i fucked for life? here's the food.

i keep replaying in my head the last scene from an officer and a gentleman. but maybe if i came to her work and tried to carry her off i'd be arrested.

shit, life ain't a movie. it certainly ain't a chick flick. i mean, it would be a stylish move but i gotta think of something original.

what the hell does that mean? what is original anyway? you want the woman, you take the woman. do you want the woman? (splitting personality in 2 for dramatic effect.)

drum roll please . . . i don't know. i guess that means no. huh? i guess that means i go home. i'm standing here writing this on a trashcan. funny what a full stomach can do. clear up your thinking. clear away your thinking. i'm gonna go do internet.