Scout is mad at me for the first time that I can remember, and she is thirteen years old. I chatted with one of her friends in an im, not telling Scout that I was going to do such, not telling her friend that I was doing such. Scout won't much talk to me, so I don't really know why she is mad, why she is crying, but I assume that it has to do with privacy and trust. I have told her that I was wrong to do it, and that I won't do it again, but this doesn't seem to affect her mood in the short term.

What I said to her pal in the im was "let's go smoke." This thing with Scout's brother, Graem, admitting that he has been smoking has been tearing me up, and though Graem and I seem to have come to an agreement whereby he will stop, I guess I have some lingering feelings on it.

Shoot me dead. Kill me now; I'm not the perfect parent.

I just looked down from my desk and my dog, Morisson, was pushing a very small mouse around on the carpet with his nose. I know that Morisson didn't bring the animal into the abode. Kobain, the cat, did. Kobain was nowhere in sight. I got some grocery bags from the kitchen and I scooped the mouse up. It was still alive, barely. Instead of trashing it, I threw it out onto some grass that resides outside our aparment door. I figured that, in its weakend condition, my cat or some other cat would soon get this mouse. I felt sad for the mouse, somehow, but there was really nothing that I could do. Welcome to the jungle, baby.

Love just left. We had a good visit. She and I and my daughter figure, Scout, went to steak place that we sometimes go to. Daughter figure ordered fried shrimp and then poured half a bottle of kethcup on them when they arrived. Whethre she knows it or not, she most likely saved herself from my prying fingers by loading the skrimps up with ketchup like that. Cynthia's medium prime rib was raw when it arrived. She hated to, but she asked the waitress to take it back and cook it a bit more. I showed her the trick that I had seen in my days in the restaurant business where the chef just takes the prime rib and turns it over on the plate and then sends it back out to the customer. When her meat came back, it was turned over and didn't appear to be any more well done than it had been when she handed it to the waitress. The waitress was cool. She asked Cynth if she would like to try a ribeye or a sirloin. I encouraged Cynthia to do so and she ordered a ribeye. A manager appeared, profusely apologizing. Cynthia was embarrassed. She never sends food back. I opened my large mouth and starting joking to the waitress that "she does this all the time; we can't take her anywhere." I was just trying to defuse the situation a bit, throw some humor into it. Cynthia got pissed and she reemed me later. "I was trying to explain to the lady why I sent the prime rib back and you interrupted me. It wasn't a time for humor."

I didn't get pissed off. My feelings didn't get hurt. I tried to listen to my love and understand her side of it. Often, I only feel or care about my side of things in this and all other relationships. Maybe that's why I find myself alone so often, yearning for friendships, yearning for love.

When the ribeye arrived it was near raw, also. We asked the waitress for a to go box and we fed it to the dogs later. You can't always get what you want.

8:35am Saturday Morning

Sleep late? Not with the little dog, upstairs, above me frantically barking and maniacally running back and forth on my neighbor's hardwood floor. Where is the neighbor? Out enjoying the good life? Working? Who knows. Who cares. All I know is that his dog is a pain in my ass. All I know is that my neighbor is an inconsiderate fuck.

I Pray To My Higher Power For The Answer To This Shit Situation
by Mikel K

I'm really at a loss as what to do about the neighbor upstairs and his dog(s.) The little dog wakes me almost every morning between 4:30am and 7:30am. Then, throughout the day, the little dog and the big dog, a german sheperd, violently bark at whoever walks by. The neighbor mostly keeps his door open so this expedites the whole process. How can a man live in an apartment comples and have dogs and not know that his dogs are a nuisance to those around him? He is a personable guy, nice to say hello to in passing from time to time, so I have been hesitant to contact the property management about this issue. I'm coming to my final straw, though. Being a good neighbor, right now, means that I am paying rent to live in a shit situation. I pray to my higher power for the answer to my questions about this situation.

Six Bucks For Popcorn
by Mikel K

I don't much understand why people stand with their noses pressed against the glass, at the car wash, watching their car get washed. It seems to me to be as futile an endeavor as watching an elephant at the zoo. You see flies hover over the animal; maybe he takes a shit and you paid twenty bucks for a ticket to get in to see this plus six or so bucks for popcorn.

My son just got back from a trip
to Chicago, to check out this school
that he got accepted to. My first
conversation with him since he got
back(it was on the phone)went like
this,

"Are you going to go to school there?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do, today?"

"I don't know."

"Goodbye." (with my best phone grin.)

"Love you."(meaning that he is now
going back to bed.)

a card on mother's day
by mikel k

her mother gets deathly ill
every time that she announces
that she is going somewhere
for a week or so.

it is her mother's attempt to
keep her in the house
keep her cleaning up dog piss
keep her cleaning up dog shit
keep her cleaning
keep her cooking

for her mother.

a mother's love can be weird;
not much in the interest of
the son or daughter.

and yet
we are supposed to get them
a card on mother's day.

abc def

IF THEY WERE GOING TO KILL YOU
OVER A BANANA, WOULD YOU GIVE
THEM MILLIONS OF DOLLARS?
by mikel k

it s a weird world
god must have retired
just when you think
that it can t get any worse
it does

i hope that my kids are sterile
so that the family line ends there.

My dad was from Ireland; County Cork. He came over from the "old country" on a boat with my mother. He came over here, he would often tell us, "to be an American." He had no time for St. Patrick's day, in fact he hated the holiday. I remember the day that he became a U.S. citizen. It was a very happy day in his life. His was not a very happy life, but I won't get into all that right now. When I was drinking, I always drank heavily most every day. I did not need the excuse of green beer or being Irish descended to black out. Mostly, I was hungover on St. Patrick's Day. I don't ever rember celebrating it with a drunk. I probably copped my father's attitude that it was a loser holiday. Most of the people drinking green beer on St. Pattie's day, I would venture, have no Irish blood anywhere within them. Of course, non-Christians support the commercial aspects of Christmas. Anyway, I bought some sushi from the grocery store and I'm going to go eat it. The dogs are begging for a biscuit. The kid gets back from Chicago tonight.
It's St. Patrick's day, but I don't care. It's just another day. Just like all days are just another day and I'm thankful that I'm still here to be in them. Be safe. Bye.

I really shouldn't tell people my life story. The girl serving me at Starbuck's doesn't need to hear that the reason that I am requesting that our spinach and feta pretzel and chocolate chip oreo brownie be cut in half is because my stepdaughter's father gets pissed off when I feed her anytime shortly before I drop her off at his house. Her dad likes to cook and he likes his daughter to eat what he cooks and not sit there at the table with a long face staring at a full plate of food that he has just worked his ass off in the kitchen to prepare and spent eight hours before that at a job that he doesn't really care for to get the money to buy the food that he has just prepared for her to stare at.

Once I have explained all this to the girl behind the counter, I begin to tell her that I am diabetic and that is another reason why it is best that she cut everything in half for us. "I can't have a whole pretzel and a whole brownie," I want to tell her, "it will drive my blood sugar level up." I keep my mouth shut, though. This woman is not interested in hearing about my diabetes. She is interested in microwaving the pretzel, cutting it in half, cutting the brownie in half and handing me the two plates that she has just put the food on.

She is polite, but probably only because she has to be.

It's a couple of days later,now, and I'm at dinner with my love. I'm impatient; she's not. I've forgotten that I ordered a double cappuchino. A good cappuchino takes awhile to make and obviously a double cappuchino takes longer that a single one to make. A classy joint, like the one that we're sitting in, will serve no cappuchino before it's time.

The waiter asked me if I would like a nice glass of wine or a tasty martini before dinner. I wanted to ask him if he would bail me out of jail. Instead, as I always do when dining out, I asked for multiple lemons for my water. The waiter brought a nice little bowl full of them. I told him that I was addicted to lemons and I started to say that "my name is Mikel and I am addicted to lemons," but I decided to spare him that.

I asked my love if she had a pen in her purse. She didn't. My love's purse is huge and she probably had everything else in it that you can think of. I had to get up and go to the bar and ask the bartender for a pen. He gave me a weird look like I'm supposed to order something that will kill me or black me out and incarcerate me from him, not something that is very theraputic and live giving at some level.

I'm not doing my job, if I don't have at least three pens on me, two ballpoint and one sharpee. I shouldn't have to ask bartenders for a pen. I shouldn't have to ask bartenders for anything. Bartenders dispense what is poison for me.