So its like 12 o’clock in the morning. I’ve just spent an hour reading, on the bottom of a cold bathtub, homework, and I don’t feel sleepy. I feel like there’s so much to do besides sleep… but haven’t figured out what. RomiE’s asleep—he was knocked out before I was able to locked myself up in the bathroom to read. My little Brown Baby’s tired **ken sighs*** Ahhhhhhhhh… Nite-nite, Brown baby. Did I tell you RomiE loved his Love Day present? The bear that I bought him for V-Day a.k.a. Love Day. He named him Rupert after Stewie’s teddy bear in Family Guy, and stood him home on the mantle of the fireplace, in the living room, like a trophy until he thought Rupert to get lonely by himself on the mantle, of the fireplace, in the living room, and before I could blink Rupert had graduated from the mantle of the fireplace in living room to the bedroom in the bed. When I find myself spending nights away from home, Rupert, I hear, “keeps my side pretty warm for me”. Have I created a monster? Could they be having an affair? RomiE has even called me at work to the business of: Rupert wanted to know if you were coming home tonight, using the bear as a method for voicing his own concerns of whether or not I’d be able to make it home. I can’t help but admire the syntax of our relationship. We poo in front of each other. In fact I make my way to the bathroom every time RomiE says he has to go JUST so I can be in the room when he does it. And we hold conversation. I make him talk to me. Great conversation!—I talk, he poo’s. Some of the most mentally stimulating material ever gets entertained in those i-watch-he-poo’s moments. And dare I say I love it. I do!
We’re going grocery shopping in the morning—well, correction… when daylight strikes. I’ve personally been itching to get this done for a while now. Those cabinets look like poor Ethiopian after having having split a single grain of rice amongst the family; starving. I get so sorry every time I open them, hoping at least some stray can of bean curd might’ve taken pity on their emptiness and crept in there bellies for the night, just to keep warm, just to quiet their grousing, the cabinets—but nothing. Supposedly, we’re borrowing my Lesbian’s car, the Gay-mobile, the Gakaa-mobile. She, as in Gakaa, is suppose to be dropping off her vehicle in the morning ‘bout 10ish so RomiE and I can scurry ‘round town and do our business. But I haven’t spoken to her all day. My fear is by me not having called her today, as a reminder for tomorrow, might’ve influenced the possibility of Gakaa having reason to forget… I should have called. I should have faith.
**ken sighs***Ahhhh… RomiE just rolled over on my leg. He’s even cuter when he’s cutting off circulation.
I’m not a vegetarian anymore! Well, in essence, and according to this book, I never was a “vegetarian”—eating fish “disqualified” me.**ken’s eyes roll*** Semantics. But maybe about a week or so ago I ate pork and, just today, followed that up with a Monte Cristo from Bennigan’s, which is nothing but a tempura fried ham sammich. My belly isn’t too happy about that, I’ve been fermenting the oxygen all day. The ozone is ruined!—complete an utter dismay! The people at work will never hear of this. Me turning back to meat?—to laugh! It sounds sinful. They nearly had a fit when they found out I was a…well, when they found out I didn’t eat meat. I guess they figured that only happened overseas, in third world countries, where luxuries such as meats aren’t privy to everyone with legs. Who in their right mind would choose to deprive such luxuries in the free world, right. Who?! You don’t eat no meat!—they’d say with their fingers gunning my face, as if I admitted to being a perv. It’s only meat, people. Calm down. Damn…no, I’m not the guy on the R. Kelley sex tapes, that my friends was R. Kelley, your children are safe with me! I just don’t eat meat. Get over it! Sue me. Boy, I tell ya, people get so bent outta shape about nothing. So I’ll wait to drop that bomb.
Lord knows I’ve already given them the “poison” speech. The speech where we’re all sitting at the lunch table and everyone’s chowing down on something dead, humming sing-alongs, belching cow bells and slurping sheep, and someone dares break over the sqeaming of little piggies being wretched apart in BLT to ask me (who isn’t eating a thing) with deer barnacles falling outta their mouths, did I care to share with them their meal.
Now, I’ve practiced this speech several times. Spent many years, before the days of my non meat eating, giving it. Its starts with me staring at the person, the imbecile who inadvertantly insists that I, Ken Robert Williams, would dare partake in such vile behavior as eating of the meat; partly empathetic, partly enraged. Giving everyone present a chance to witness my face, holding them, from hence forth, accountable on knowing to never again ask that question because this won’t be repeated, and with my right hand—because I’m right handed, cover my heart as if to declare: How dare you!— still partly empathetic, still partly enraged. Insulted! And in very slow paced sentences, as if I were adreesing an audience of delayed learners, I express what I call, my version of the answer “No” that hums to the tune of: I (period) Do (period) Not (period) Eat (period, look at their food, period) Poison (period).
And they instantly understand.
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