by nature, a parking space allows one to keep one’s car in a relatively safe and convenient place, a place from which he or she can remove said car at will. if you have parked behind me, thereby blocking me into my parking space, you have rendered me unable to remove my car at will. therefore, since we live in houston and nobody walks, i am unable to go anywhere at all…

this failed experiment made me wish for more people who appreciate the bizarre. it made me wish for nicer people in my apartment. it made me wish fucking asshole would move away. mostly, though, it made me miss the guy who lived across the hall from me before garbage girlfriend moved in. his name was fiesta mike, he worked at a tattoo parlor, he drove an orange dick tracy car, and he had a bumper sticker on his door that said, “vegetables aren’t food. vegetables are what food eats.” …

anyway, i made a small x-files page. it’s mostly a tribute to darin morgan’s writing on the show, though i’ve included a few other good episodes as well. oddly enough i find my x-files page rather embarrassing, as though because i created it i’ve now become everything that is stupid, repetitive, and useless about the internet. i am those sites with PHOTOS of ACTOR. i am SCRIPTS and SCREEN CAPTURES. i am DATABASE of how many times CHARACTER says WORD in EPISODE of SHOW…

there are other childhood things i remember about aunt joan–how old the elevator was in her apartment, how she kept all her things organized in little baskets, how she would sing parts of songs when they came up in conversation. how everything she said always seemed more interesting because she was saying it. how her hands were always soft and dry and papery like an old woman’s, even when i was little and she was in her thirties. how i always felt special when she asked me about school and my friends…

andy came back from his car. his bare feet worried me. i mean, he could cut himself on something and then get a floodwater disease and his feet would have to be amputated, which would mean he couldn’t play the drums anymore. “did you get all your stuff from the car?” i asked…

that, then, is why i can’t seem to finish the jail story. when i think about that night i picture your sleeping face, your bruised knees, you in the other squad car. i think about how i cried in the jail cell wondering if you were okay, thinking you hated me, knowing you’d never talk to me again. hearing your voice on the phone after i was released, i cried again with relief, and when i finally got to see you two days later you grabbed me and hugged me and wouldn’t let go. but now your drawer is empty and your stuff’s in a bag and i don’t want to think about it anymore…