They all said it walking out. I needed closure. Though I enjoyed fucking, almost as much as a good Ted Berrigan poem. My life wasn't a sonnet--more like an obscene ode to bad judgment.
        That wasn't what was in order. The last one had been an aging goth girl with a tattoo fetish--a grief junkie supreme, popping every pill under the sun as if it was pez. One day she loved you, the next it was as if she caught you poisoning her cat. Maybe that was why I was with her for so long, you see--I'm a grief junkie too. Hardcore. I have like three college degrees, and no job. I haven't had one for a few years now. Though you can't blame a guy for staying with a girl, who within hours of meeting, felt like sharing that she simply loved to suck cock. Yeah, that was a good time...Moving on. Next time, if I wanted drama, I'd watch "Inside the Actors Studio".
        The life of an unemployed lawn care technician can be a boring one at times--sometimes you have to make your own fun. I've never been very good at that--that's why all the emotional bear traps. I was sick of using bad poetry as some sort of pick up line on high school girls. Though it had its moments. Mostly, I spent my days hanging out in my friend Jess's kitchen like a stray dog, and not a very friendly one. Jess a.k.a the sweetest girl alive, is a bleeding heart education major, kind to children and animals, all that. She quit smoking a few days ago; we're working through it with chocolate. Far too stable for dating--though I'll admit I have a little crush, but you just can't fuck things up with a girl who keeps you from becoming a suicide statistic.
         It was in Jess's kitchen, that I

* * *         I don't know how or why it came to me to write the letter, but I've never felt cleaner than after a good breakup--if there is such a thing. Why in a modern society does one have to be dating someone--in order to break up with them? Surely that was a hurdle I could get past. A ring of fire to be jumped through, in the style of that other troubled genius Johnny Cash, so I cranked up his greatest hits album as I typed. I began by composing a list of Ms. Harpwood's many faults, at least I hoped it was Ms., breaking up with a married woman for it's own sake just seemed like too much trouble. That bitch was going to pay, even if I wasn't sure for what--yet. Her list of war crimes started to pile up in my head.

        Dear Eden,
        I can only imagine that this letter will be as much of a shock to read, as it is for me to have to write it. Never having been a fan of tomes, I'll get to the point. While I do think you're wonderful in a "Sid and Nancy" sort of way, viewing you as my angry fix is no longer enough. It all started with you stealing my socks, and the shrine you made in order to channel the spirit of Dudley Moore the weekend my mother visited, simply wasn't funny. Though I suppose the fact that you sold my soul on e-bay to Corey Haim was the last straw. I didn't enjoy being in "The Double O Kid". Ever since then I've felt dead inside. I don't care if you did need Prozac. It was most certainly you and not me--though I would be open to makeup sex.
         Yours,
        Felix Pepperdine Esq.
         p.s. I was poisoning your cat...

        I stuffed the letter in an envelope, and headed toward the door. That's the last thing I remember for quite a while. Apparently from what they tell me--the paperboy had been drinking, and hit me head on with his bike. I will have nightmares about Huffy for the rest of my life.
         There was a ring at the doorbell, and then she walked in. I was in a pain reliever haze at the moment. She was holding a tattered envelope covered with tire marks. I winced--seeing multi pixeled streamers in her pupils for a second. And then it began:
         "I'm Eden, would you like to have dinner sometime?" She asked.
         Now I don't know if it was the unstable look in her eyes, or the fact that she was covered in tattoos, but I found myself already thinking about the makeup sex.
         We met up that night in the local coffee shop. It was a strange meeting place I thought. Eden seemed like a dive bar kinda girl, and I was pretty sure she had more issues than Time Magazine.
         That night we went back to her place. I was expecting fireworks. I kept looking around the room for books like "Sperm Donation For Dummies" and "Heroin Addiction Made Simple". The only thing I noticed was the fact that she hadn't mowed her lawn in at least 2 weeks--that got on my nerves. I was about an inch away from cutting it myself.
         We were sitting on her bed, when I started to take off my pants. She frowned, and then turned out the lights. I was about to kiss her, when she pulled away and began singing Janis Joplin. I had to admit she could carry a tune. We drifted off to sleep.
         A few weeks went by and nothing. The

* * *         One day I was taking a break from jerking off, when I noticed a small lock on the basement door. I immediately attempted to jam it open with a soiled butter knife. Eden was working downtown at the vintage vinyl store. After the knife, I simply started slam dancing into the door, until it flew open, and I went tumbling down the stairs.
         I dusted myself off, and smiled with insane glee at the rusting lawnmower sitting in front of me. It was after that--that I noticed the shrine. There were pictures of me everywhere from Kindergarten on up, dusty yearbooks, you name it. There was even an old poster of the Monkees, except Peter Tork had been cut out, and I had been pasted up in his place. That was just fucked up.
        I turned around, and there stood Eden. She started to blurt out how she had been in love with me for years, how her family had moved away, and how she had recently decided to move back to town. She said that my letter was destiny. I told her she was crazy, I was boring; I could never be part of an assembled 1960's super group. I offered to get her Peter Tork's home phone number, but she wouldn't listen. She moved in to kiss me, and started to remove my shirt. I thought to myself, make-up sex, why not? I still wore three condoms though. When it was finished, I headed for the door, telling her we were over for good this time; that I couldn't be with anyone who really loved me--it was just unsettling.

* * *         Sitting in the greyhound terminal, I started composing this story. Jess would get a kick out of it anyway. It was an interesting chapter in an otherwise boring life. I boarded the bus for Philadelphia. I needed to chill out and see some old college friends. I thought about dropping it in the mailbox before hand, but I kept imagining phantom paperboys following me alongside the bus. At least now I had an excuse for being out of work, I still couldn't read the want ads without shaking, I dropped the story into my suitcase, and decided to drift off into the sunset.