When I came home from work yesterday, I was telling Henry how I taught Kim to say ‘two thousand double quad’ (she won’t say it).

"Is that even right?" he asked. "I mean, couldn’t that actually mean 2044?"

"No!" I cried, blood rising to my face. "Four doubled is eight! Double quad!"

But he kept going on, analyzing it from every angle. "I knew there’d be one motherfucker in the crowd who had to question it…." I muttered in defeat.

"And I’m that motherfucker, yay!" Henry cheered, before leaving for work.

In the beginning, Henry and I used to go for walks together in cemeteries. We would have so much fun, too. Probably more me than him, but still. I would try to push him down hills and scare him by springing out from tombstones and I would tell him jokes and we (I) would laugh and it was just really nice to have that bonding time together. He’d teach me about moss and the flow of electricity and I would pose mind-exploding queries about fucking Siamese twins.

It was like our thing, you know? Like our habit of watching Asian horror movies before it became a cool thing to do. It was something in our relationship that I could count on. "Oh good, it’s the weekend. Time to dance on graves."

We don’t have any "things" anymore. Now, I go to cemeteries by myself. I listen to post-hardcore and screamo (and sometimes Timbaland) on my Zen and feel aggressive and then I get lost in my thoughts, which turns into contemplating doing really stupid things and puking on graves and it’s just no good. I miss having a cemetery companion.

Today I was on my way to Uniondale Cemetery and as I sat at a red light, two black guys crossed the street in front of my car. One of them looked at me, smiled real wide, and waved. I smiled back — a real, genuine smile — and thought to myself, "I bet that guy would want to have a ‘thing’ with me."

Why doesn’t Henry?

Before I left for work today, Henry was enrapt in some dating show on Fox Reality called "Manhattan Match." There was some sniveling basketcase of a single woman on there, and let me tell you, she was saying all those red-flag things that, if I was a man, would have had my penis tripping over itself to be castrated. She was sobbing and whimpering things like, "I’m not needy! I’m not! I don’t know why guys leave me! My last boyfriend went on a business trip and I never heard from him again! I have no standards, I’ll take anyone who gives me attention!"

It was a level of desperation I couldn’t fathom.

"I don’t know what’s worse," I said to Henry. "Being so desperate that you find yourself crying on a dating show, or being stuck in a loveless, dead-end relationship like I am."

He wasn’t amused.

Two of the deleted entries, combined:

Dear local friends (even if we have never met),

I just got a Holga camera and I’m dying to use it. Who wants to participate in a photoshoot sometime very soon?

It’ll be super fun and you can wear animal masks and guacamole if you want.

Let me know.
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And now, a riddle:

What is really hot and goes up and down and smells like beef jerky and cabbage?

The guys at work thought this was gay and non-sensical (durr, that’s what they get when they ask me to make one up on the spot).

First person to guess it gets a holiday card of their choosing.

The first time I met Henry, he was walking out of the break room at work. It was his second week at Weiss Meats and I thought he looked angry and impenetrable, someone who I wouldn’t be able to joke around with like I enjoyed doing with some of the other delivery drivers. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would hand out free smiles and that got under my skin; I was pretty cheerful back then.

My second impression of him was that, in his navy blue coveralls, he resembled Michael Myers. I was out of the country for his first week at Weiss’s, and it makes me laugh to think that his first impression of me was that I was some crazy, weird girl who was currently in Australia, meeting the Cure. Because that’s what all the guys told him. That the office manager was some weird, jet-setting blond (with big boobs) off meeting some “queer” band. I didn’t like him right away, but I’m sure he was obssessed at first sight. (Right Henry?!) Well, now Michael Myers and Weird Busty Blond have a kid together, which makes me laugh even harder. I can’t wait to see how Chooch is going to meet his Weird Busty Blond. (Or Michaels Myers; I’m an equal opportunist kind of mom.)

I was just chatting with my little boyfriend Henry, talking about my Christmas cards.

“I need to try and get them featured somewhere. That seems to be the key,” I said thoughtfully, hoping he’d toss in a brain cell or two to help me think.

“Like where? America’s Most Wanted?”
I need a new business partner, stat.

They do not care about us evening shifters here at work and we are left behind in the wake of the dayshifters to shiver and shake in the chilly office air.

So I have taken to wearing a hat.

Indoors. At work. Constantly. Keeps the heat in.
Also, Henry tried to send me a picture of his weener and I thought it was poop. I can’t believe he thought I was the type of girl who would appreciate camera-phoned genitalia.

Also part 2: I am going to print out my Franklin’s Bar story and staple it to telephone poles around town and then wait and see if something happens.

I hope something happens. Like, the townies erupting into a torch-bearing revolt.