dick from africa

Since I’ve been back, I’d have to say that things at Marta’s have been comfortable - lot’s of fresh water, cold air, Neutella, and cheese puffs. But at the same time they’ve been weird.

Marta has taken up full time with her VCU creative writing teacher. She gets to call him “Buddy” but he’s made it known to me that he prefers that I call him “Richard”.

Pretty much every evening she’s either staying over at his house or he’s staying here.

When he stays here - now this might just be my imagination - but it seems he always manages to wake up and come into the kitchen at the same that I’m eating breakfast. He’s never wearing more than a pair of boxer shorts and he’s always scratching his belly.

“Morning, ol’ chap”. (He always calls me “ol’ chap” - what’s with that?)

Always - he opens the refrigerator, opens the milk, smells it, puts it back, grabs the orange juice, walks over and stands beside me so that if I turn my head I’m eye-level with his crotch, and then he always asks me - always, “So how’d you sleep last night?” And, always, before I can answer he says, “I slept great. I had an absolutely wonderful sleep.” He’ll then take a swig of juice straight from the carton and burp. He’s comfortable in doing this, I guess, because it’s just us guys. However, if we were lions on the Kalahari and he tried this stunt, I would at least attempt to rip out his throat.

What have I been doing you might ask? Not a whole lot. I take out the trash and wash the dishes. There’s not much yard work to do what with the heat like it’s been.

I’m watching a lot of TV and I’m still trying to find Tracy. I have a real bad feeling about Tracy - she always stays in touch.

Hey, how about those assholes in Congress? How the hell did they get elected? Oh yeah, we voted for them - we’ll, y’all did anyway.