Eventually I plan on having quites from various poems that I have come across over the years from bathroom walls across the land - I may have invented the art, a fact that I am very proud of, but I am not vain about it. I do rather enjoy the commentary that I have read on many-a bathroom wall. If you take away the ones that are there for no other reason then to drop the f-bomb or to rip on an ex-girlfriend or ex-wife, then you are left with some pretty good stuff! So....

Flush the toilet
and slam down the lid
Pull up your britches
never mind the skid
Pull out a pen
and leave a note
Ryme it like P-Diddy
Make it dope

Broken Heart

So I bet you thought that I had died, or something like that? I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that, after two months of writing I up and disappeared. The truth is that I was doing a stretch up in Sing-Sing. For those of you who have no idea what the f-ing hell I am talking about – and that is probably most of you, since that joke was not very well constructed, but it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances – Sing-Sing is my little way of saying that for the past eight months or so I have been having to endure a prison of sorts; a prison that we have all – or least most of us - have visited at one time or another in our lives, willingly I might add. You guessed it – marriage!

It happens every now and again, even to the best of us. Like many poor saps and incurable romantic, I lost control of my senses and fell head-over-heel for some dame that said all the right things and had a nice rack. Before I knew what the hell was happening my tighty-whities were sharing their drawer space with a butterfly-embroidered friends made out of silk. Worse yet, my bathroom was transformed into a pink monstrosity, almost like a Flamingo had some how found it’s way in there one morning and then just exploded – pink frilly things landing on the toilet-seat cover and around the kleen-nex box and on the floor mat in front of the shower. My voice on the answering machine was also replaced by that of a women who proclaimed, giggly that “you have reached Sarah’s house, leave a message and I will get back to you as soon possible, tootles – hehehe.”

That was my first clue that my single story 1000 sq. ft. area that I once called home was mine no longer. My next clue would come when I came home and found my DVD collection – Aliens, Terminator, Battlestar Gallactica. . . Three’s Company, replaced with the complete series of Murder She Wrote and The Ultimate Collection of TV’s Golden Years: 1950’s – 60’s.” The last and final clue would be when I, again coming home, would find my house completely gutted – no furniture, no TV, no paintings on the wall, only divorce papers dropped carelessly on the floor for me to sign.

When all was said and done my wallet got a few hundred dollars lighter each month, but I did get to keep the house, and the TV and wife that I used to come home to each and every night was replaced by a two-gallon fish tank and a single gold fish which died last Thursday because I forgot to feed it.

That’s the story of my life there in one single sentence.

The lesson to be learned here, kiddies, marriage doesn’t work – for me it didn’t work the first time around or the second and it certainly didn’t work the fourth time around.

And yes, Sarah is her real name, not that you will have any idea who she is by such a simple and common name like Sarah, but if you ever shack up with a women with eyes as blue as glacial ice and skin a smooth as a freshly blown snow drift and with a heart just as cold, it might be her. The only warm part of our brief time together was her hair; the color of the sun after a long days drift across the sky and the warmth that it brought just before it set.

If I will miss anything it will be her hair, but that’s it – her hair.

Work will resume around here Monday with some new material.