(This one´s for Clay)

I.
I sort of lose track of time on Monday evening after working out, doing one those things no one´s supposed to do yet we do it anyway— I´m wasting my time browsing for p*rn then I meet this girl I used to go out with a couple of years ago, online on MSN and it kind of goes downhill from that point once it boils down to, in layman´s terms, her seeing someone these days and my browsing for internet p*rn.

Much later, in bed, I can´t seem to be able to get her out of my head, the way she moaned and held tight to the bedspread as I would move her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck with the tip of my tongue, and then I start thinking, for apparently no specific or good reason, of Gold Kryptonite of all things. I start thinking of how f*cking scary Gold-K should be to Superman because it sort of, like, strips his powers away permanently and if I were Superman I would pretty much never leave places like the Fortress of Solitude at the Arctic or that Justice League cave in Rhode Island.

My sleepless vision of an agoraphobic Superman starts freaking me out more than it should to the point it´s I think four a.m. and I haven´t slept yet even though I know I have to be at the office by seven for my Spanish lessons.

The alarm clock goes off at 5:20. It reads, Apurate, hombre even though I´m not really into Spanish but the company´s really paying for it, so no real choice there.
“Buenos días, Conde Drácula,” I greet myself on the bathroom mirror once I get a glimpse of how deep the dark circles beneath my eyes are.

Then I remember vampires aren´t really supposed to appear on mirrors and the joke´s shot.


II.
On Tuesday evening I get off the bus as it leaves the tunnel that runs beneath this museum that´s near my place but I´m kind of late for classes as usual.
This cute blonde stops me as I´m about to cross the avenue and makes me miss the green light. She apologized then asks the way to this Shopping Mall. I tell her it´s too close for taxi and I´m going in that direction myself, so she pretty much tags along.

She tells me she´s late for her classes herself, and when I ask what kind of classes one takes at the mall, she tells me she´s been taking acting lessons there because she wants to be an actress. I tell her I´m sorry and ask her if I´m supposed to know her from TV or something.
“I wish,” she says a little forlornly but not entirely.

We continue with the small talk and once I realize I´ve totally zoned out of the conversation she asks whether I´m even listening to her. “Something about, like, auditions, right?” I ask her but then it´s too late because whatever narrow window of getting her phone number I ever had, I must have overshot it by a mile.
She thanks me for the “ride”, enters the mall by this lateral entrance and leaves me staring at her ass half-aroused but half-dead inside as well.


III.
Shortly before lunchtime on Wednesday my boss passes by my desk and finds me sitting on my chair, hunching over this girl who´s lying on the ground, with back to the carpet. She´s as white as a ghost, breathing somewhat heavily, and holding hands with me: “Is everything okay in here?,” he asks me.
“Since the ambulance... was taking... too long...,” says the girl, who´s trying to catch her breath at the same time, “He started... telling me... George Clooney has... a pet pig... I´m feeling... better now...”
My boss looks at her, puzzled as hell, then back at me. “And I´ll just assume you have this situation under control?”
“I think... George Clooney... is GAY!,” she says a little too loud then squeezes my hand tighter for support. I gesture my boss off, yes of course I have it under control for chrissakes, then the paramedics arrive. I see her into the ambulance then go to lunch by myself.

Later that night, close to midnight, and I´m on a parking lot walking in the opposite direction from the rest of the crowd, everyone just out of this A-Ha concert and I´m thinking god, are they all retards or something, because it´s so much easier to get a taxi on the expressway by the river than on the gridlocked backstreets to where they´re all going.
But anyway: There´s something just undeniably cool about life itself once it´s come down to having watched the live performances of two James Bond theme songs in the last couple of months—this one being The Living Daylights, and the other being Duran Duran´s A View to a Kill a few months back.


III.
“Are you even listening to us?,” ask these two girls at the front seat as the car speeds up past a yellow traffic light. It´s Thursday there around eleven p.m. and I´m all too interested on my bleeding fingernail and how the pain just throbs and pulsates red as I squeeze it between my thumb and forefinger to actually hear what they were saying. “You know, this restaurant´s pretty good,” I tell them, changing the subject completely even though I have no idea of what they were talking about in the first place.
“Hey I´ve been there once,” says this cute, dumb brunette holding her cigarette out the rolled-down window. “It´s so packed with H-O-M-O-S...”
“No, hey, knock it off,” I reply. “They server this really amazing drink with vodka and strawberries and stuff there...”
“I´m gonna drink my ass off tonight,” says the other girl, the one driving the car. “I´m going to this party as soon as I drop you guys.”
“Whose party?,” I ask.
“Aww a friend´s. This girl I know.”
She says the friend´s name and the brunette, upon dragging from her cigarette, thinks a little hard and finally blurts out: “Hey I know her. Total hardbody.”
“So would you make out with her?,” I ask, my attention finally away from my finger.
“Ewww no,” she says. “I like boys!”
“Actually I think the two of you just like, park the car and make out now,” I say.
“Ewww no, I told you I like boys!,” says the dumb brunette.
“Don´t look at me, I´m married,” says the other one, who´s a lot cuter.


IV.
It´s the tail-end of a particularly-hectic Friday afternoon at the office and all I can think of is fixing myself a clean, cool date for the weekend.
I go for a cup of coffee at the small kitchen by the air-conditioner ducts then slip on my earphones to listen to a song or time permitting, two. Something tells me synchronicity should kick in any second now and I would fall halfway through the Cure´s Friday I´m in Love. Oddly enough, it almost actually happens and as turn on the radio, the Clash are singing Police on my Back: “I been running Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday, What have I done?”
I take it as a good omen for the weekend and head back for my desk.

Later that evening, before jogging and before working out, I meet a few friends for a drink at the mall by the train station: Someone´s telling me it´s someone else´s birthday but I only have eyes to this cute waitress in a ponytail serving the table next to ours.
I get a little obnoxious then spill what´s left of my bottled water over J.´s drink, whatever it is, on purpose, saying Happy Birthday you idiot.


V.
I have blisters the size of Australia on the soles on my feet. It´s Saturday afternoon and I´ve just returned from the park, where I was jogging barefoot on hot asphalt for no good reason.
It sort of kills the entire weekend then and there because I´m actually unable to set foot on the ground because the carpet on the floor of the living room feels like a thousand needles on the reddened flesh where the blisters used to be once I clipped them off with a nail clipper.

It´s one of those sad weekends, however, because I ´don´t get to all anyone, and no one calls me either.