Ah, what's become of blogging? Am I the only one left? The Omega Blogger?
Nick? Blogged only until he found a girl who would put up with him, promptly married her and has not left the bedroom since.
Lyco? Buried under public interest petitions and environmental regulations, too weak to reach the keyboard.
Hanah? In interests of reaching Supreme Court, seeks to reduce her paper trail (she's also been trying to have me killed, so far without success, for much the same reason).
Jay? Lost to the siren song of Flicker.
The era, alas, is ending. Soon I will be the only one left. Also, there will be some zombies involved.
My boss and I spoke today, as we do once a week. Do you still work here? he says. That's what my pay stub says, I say.
"You look very happy." Of course, my boss is pretty cheerful himself, so we get along. And the reason I look happy is because I always assume I'm being summoned to the office to be yelled at--I am never yelled at, not even that time I accidentally got the IT guy deported, and thus am always pleasantly surprised.
"Well," I say, "I moved up a notch on my belt today, hence the spring in my step. Wasn't even trying to lose weight."
This led to a long discussion of the ravages of age on the metabolism of the human machinery, ending with my: "And on that note, I'm off to the gym."
Ah, the gym workout. Some people rotate muscle groups by day, sticking to a firm schedule. I myself work whatever muscle is targeted by the the machine directly behind the cutest girl on the treadmill. This is known as romance.
Afterwards, my ten laps in the pool were somewhat less pathetic, even considering today was legs and shoulder day in the weight room, which I'm pretty sure are the only muscles involved in the unique stroke I liberally call front crawl. My legs essentially taffy at this point, I go jerking across the length of the pool like an epileptic trout. Ten times.
Then it's off to a party at Lyco's. I get lost, but I know she lives on R St. so I go up and down the length of that for a while. Eventually, I noticed I'm the only person doing so. There are bars on the windows. And hey, didn't Lyco get mugged in this neighborhood last year?
Luckily, I ran into a man who offered directions. Sure, he turns out to be an ex-convict who was released from a 12 year prison term 3 days ago, but I don't learn this until ten minutes later. Plus he's got a certain affable charm. I call up Lyco for directions, and he grabs the phone from me and asks for nearby landmarks.
Kurt a.k.a. "New York" escorts me to Lyco's. We speak of gentrification and the state of race relations in modern day America. He likes white people, he says. I like black people, I say. We both check out a passing brunette and mutter appreciatively. We're peas in a pod. He gets me where I'm going and I give him ten bucks.
Lyco is standing out on the street waiting for me. She's also apparently dispatched a search party.
Speaking of parties, I do very well at this one. There's a rough spot where I try to explain my idea for science fiction story heavily influenced by dualist philosophy involving a fish tank full of disembodied souls in an extra-dimensional pet shop. The seminary student I'm telling this to nods and feigns interest. I'm losing her. So I switch gears and talk about the time an ex-convict walked me to a party, which kills.
Hanah: I miss Sasha
me: I miss Sasha too.
me: Feels like I haven't heard a good pun in weeks.
Hanah: Please don't try the one about emery boards.
me: That sounds a little rough.