There's a Rose in my Trashbin?

Is it bad that I can commit to permanent memory a 6 or 7 digit number without much effort or repetition?

What would those braincells do if they weren't tirelessly storing my login numbers which I'm too lazy to change, or the phone numbers of people I will never again voluntarily call? Probably help me write poetry that doesn't make cats spontaneously combust with wretchedness upon the utterance of it.

(no, I don't read my poetry to any pets, especially not cats. The fear that they might actually burst into flame or explode is part of the reason).

I'm having one of those 'off' days.

I like being secure in my superiority, but lately I've been both less secure and less superior than normal. Which is odd because I've basically gotten to the point where if ignorant people tell me I'm wrong, I tell them to fuck off, then break all contact with them if they are unwilling to demonstrate some humility.

I mean, doesn't that *sound* like the Modus Operandi (look it up, I'm too lazy to link tonight) of a secure, elitist asshole to you?

I dunno, maybe I'm losing my edge.

Tonight at work was odd, because we were busy, and it was thursday, and we're usually never busy on thursday. So not-busy, in fact, that I have plenty of time to pimp the special-du-jour, which is a very tasty surf-and-turf dinner with--[slap]

Ok, sorry, I'll shutup about the special. My point is that I didn't even think about the fact that we *had* a special tonight until just now, because there were 60 bankers in my bar, all drinking on seperate tabs, and half of them ordering expensive or complex cocktails that are really just excuses to say aloud "I'd really like to get laid more often, please" via innuendo without the people around you laughing.

Anyway, it was a long evening, because my bar isn't really set up for busy, fast moving crowds and two bartenders, it's set up for me. So having two bartenders and a fast-drinking crowd really made things less-optimal than they should have been.


So I come home, a bit wired and a lot tired and kindof just 'off' and someone who I was pretty sure had finally admitted that she's always been sick of me, even when she really thought she wasn't, has left me a note saying she wants to talk to me.

Which is, to say the least, a bit disconcerting. I compare it to finding a whole, healthy rose growing from your trash bin when you go to throw away a copy of Awake! that some missionary for a religion that sounds frighteningly similar to what you believe (except that you're not into, y'know, cults) left at your house.

What the hey? Yes, it's really is a rose. Yes, it's really alive. Yes, it's really your trash bin. Yes, it appears to be sweet-smelling despite having roots entwined in old-kleenexs and a banana peel.

You must confirm all these things, although they are self-evident, one by one, before you can even tackle the messier, bigger questions of "why?" and "how?".

And more importantly, what is the appropriate response? It seems too absurd an event to simply ignore. It's not like you can just slam the lid down on the trash-bin and let the damn thing starve for light in there until Thursday, when the dustmen will come and take it away without a second thought. It's a rose for crissakes, not a damn weed or a copy of the Penthouse Forums XI that some inconsiderate neighbor left in your bin so it wouldn't be discovered by his wife.

I mean, can you really be expected to attempt an extraction of this rose? What if it is used to trash? Can it live off regular soil? Will attempting to transplant it merely kill it, or will the plant (which is obviously opinionated enough to survive) merely be offended and crawl back into the trash-bin (or worse yet, your sock drawer) under the cover of darkness?

Besides, the last three plants you had, (real ones, the kind you buy at the store) all died, and they were normal healthy water-and-sunlight sort of things that you should have been plenty able to handle. What if you just get this one out, only to let it die a grumpy death like the others? Once it's given up the ghost what will you do with it? The ultimate irony is that you might throw it out, and then it would be back in the trash. Could this create a vicious cycle? Will this rose haunt you until you move, dying and being reborn in the bin each time? Might it become sortof creepy it-won't-go-away flaura-based-pheonix that you'll just have to live with, like a crazy relative that pops up at the most unexpected times in December with useless holiday gifts and a bad joke about reindeer?

And if you don't attempt to save it, can you tell anyone? I mean, it's a story worth repeating: "I found the strangest thing in my trash-bin yesterday. . ." --but that's hardly worth starting if you can't go on to say "oh yes" when everyone asks, with great interest, if you kept it.

I mean, certainly some response more in-depth than -- "huh." [shut lid, shiver, plod back inside] -- is appropriate for such a random event.

I think my mind is wandering, but perhaps all this pointless rambling has made clear in what an odd position I feel myself to be.

I suppose I just leave the lid on the bin open and let the thing sort itself out. Maybe that's for the best?

[Hindsight-o-matic: Appearantly the Rose left on its own.]

Friday, January 28, 2005


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