This is a blog to refer you to another blog. So meta.

AlfInYoMouf.com is my new home, and in spite of the 5000 hits this MySpace blog has gotten, I must move on.

So follow me to ALFINYOMOUF.COM

Or be so uncouth.

Can't stay long. Here comes the reason why...

It used to be so easy. On days such as these, she'd search and search for hours -- in, among the flowers...

I loved it. I loved her...

Play the fool, act so cruel. I loved it. Read her book, take a look. I loved her...

It all seems so absurd that this should have occurred. My very only secret and I had to go and leak it. My secret garden's not so secret anymore...

I am a sneaky, sneaky son of a bitch...

Oh, no! My sneakiness gets kicked down a peg by openly admitting that I am, by virtue of Providence, sneaky!

Oh, wellers.

*Euphemistic euphemisms!

I don't know why I keep having these dreams, but I feel compelled to share them.

So I was in a building, see, and I see Lady and Madame, you know, some dude's old flames, poking their heads out from adjacent windows. I was like, holy smokes! At that point, I raced to tell some dude of the happenings. Some dude said it was nothing, that they always talked together. As I looked up, Lady and Madame walked off towards a higher level, chatting like elementary school friends.

Actually, that's as good as my dream got. I ended up in a TERRIBLE apartment infested with every insect you can think of. Then, for no reason, I was going to spend quality time with Courteney Cox, but as I tried to persuade her to find another room (it was crowded with dazed people), she vehemently denied. Good thing, too, since I figured she had the cold.* It only got worse. I kind of inadvertently killed John Cena as I made my escape from the crumbling building, so his unruly gang went after me. I managed to escape once, but some asshole found me in the airport. They had a guy blow a poison dart at me, but I managed to pull it off and poison at least three other people with it. They died, and so did I. As the serum worked its way through my bloodstream, I was consumed by a drunk-like daze until I finally collapsed. I woke up with a start. My God, was I hungry.

How goes that thing you call a life? Still living life like a meth addict on Valium, only you can't afford Valium, so you get a job at Burger King until you get robbed by some guy named Kenneth who you pinpoint to the police but goes free shortly thereafter to seek revenge on you, so you go into the witness protection program and change your last name to Montecarlo and start your life anew as a green thumb at the plants section of Home Depot but you get a splinter so you go to the hospital but they give you dirty blood so you die of a disease that only affects 2% of Americans and your funeral service is a short one because it starts raining and grandma has a bingo game in three hours but her carpool flakes on her so she's forced to go on the bus but then it gets a flat tire so she gets on a taxi with a man who smells like old rice but is nice who then crashes into a tow truck and is forced to get a second job as a bouncer to pay off the insurance fees but then gets stabbed by a dude named Nancy in the back alley for not paying him enough money for the same order of Valium you originally ordered? Nice.

Bah, high school was crap. Tests and people to detest, it was four years wasted on nothing. Now elementary school, THAT'S the life. Pizza Fridays, field trips, accidentally letting one rip in your P.E. coach's face while you're trying to do sit-ups in front of your whole class which is probably what made me the shell of a human being that I currently am but can't get over because my psychiatrist is a quack and I should fire her but I hate confrontation so I pay her $100 every week to give me empty advice about learning to cope with life's little failures, not knowing that in terms of me, it's one gigantic failure filled with soggy frozen pizza and 2:00 AM nights spent weeping in front of a computer monitor -- THAT'S what life is all about. Ah, Henry M. Flagler Elementary, we hardly knew ye.

I've been feeling increasingly restless as of late. Seems to me as if everything I want out of life, I have, and the things I don't, well, I guess I don't have. I fear that my apathy has turned into complacency, and that I have unwittingly accepted my existence. It's kind of like waiting in line for a rollercoaster and finding yourself in a Corolla. I once had a Corolla, so I think the lazy analogy fits. So as I try to "deal" with my non-demons (more like analytical Seinfelds on the shoulder), I invite you to read my latest brain-tickle. Explaining it would be giving away the plot point, and not explaining it will leave you irritated, probably. I've chosen the former because it's under 800 words and, c'mon, "blind revenge on a blameless victim." (By the by, if you haven't figured it out yet, I have once again succumbed to...the disease. The kind I can't shake. You know the one...)

Sailing To Sadder Shores

      "Breathe!"

      Consuelo's chest did not move. Her hair swayed deathly with the somber pull of the tide.

      "Breathe!" Jose yelled at his cousin, shaking her violently, feeling her brow, cradling her in his arms. Her fading warmth felt like an exhausted engine unwilling to travel the last thousand miles.

      "Jose," the onboard nurse said gravely, "I'm sorry. She's gone."

      Jose Luis Savater keeled over the side of the boat. He could not hear the whispers of despair over the sound of his watery vomit—but the treacherous ocean, menacingly blue and vast, growled ever louder with every wave. Wiping his mouth and surveying his slumping countrymen, a black stone anchored in the pit of his stomach. Why, he asked himself in Spanish, why did I pull all of these people from their lives? For "opportunity"? He spat the salt from his lips. For death.

      Only a week before, they were meeting in his half-apartment in Havana. Jose almost chuckled at the thought of his half-apartment: half concrete, half open air, split open by forty year's worth of Castro's glorious revolution. In Jose's speech, he had inspired in his friends the story of the American Dream, and her name was Miami.

      There was no sleepy dreaming on the wooden boat, only gentle wails to San Lazaro, that expert seafarer who had made the trek to Miami countless times. Thinking about the saintly patron, Jose leaned over and upchucked the last of his Cuban bread breakfast from the night of their maiden voyage.

      "Coño carajo!" cursed the nurse named Roberto.

      Looking up, Jose saw Roberto kicking the motor. Not again…thought Jose.

      "That's it!" cried Roberto with a firm slap. "It finally died!" Assorted curses flew at Jose as he positioned himself next to the decades-old motor.

      Cursing the nurse's name under his breath, Jose began dismantling the motor that was almost as old as he was. As a repairman in Havana, he had fixed countless motors, all used for the purpose of fleeing the island. Storm clouds billowed into the indifferent sky as the naked motor wheezed and puffed into life-support existence.

      Grumbles of congratulations were drowned by the ocean rain bolting from the sky. The scabbed bodies huddled together in slight relief, thankful to give the alcoholic sun its leave. As water pressured on their every side, they thought only of Calle Ocho and of a market called Sedanos. Papito from Flagler Street had sent pictures of the hallowed parking lot…

      Lamenting the fact that the fishing poles they had brought along were useless, Jose faded into a sleep found only in Havana as the crashes of thunder obliterated his eardrum. A trout this big, he thought, would get me half a dozen eggs…maybe a blouse for Gloria…a truck for Joselito…Darkness…

      The screams stole him from a dreamy Christmas Eve in his emerald backyard. Coral Gables, the Three Kings were chanting…

      "Jose!" Roberto's face was pristine—a punch would be so lovely, contemplated Jose as he shifted his weight. "Consuelo no esta bien!" Consuelo's not well?

      Rushing to his cousin's side, Jose quickly discovered that her pulse was vanishing like a murmur lost in the frost. As he thought of Tia Clara and Tio Rogelio, her head slipped from his arms. The boat crashed heavily into the tide. Through the screams for mercy and the pleas to God, Jose wished desperately to sink to the bottom. Awash in salty liquid, Jose's lips moved to a silent prayer—

      "Jose?" Consuelo coughed softly.

      Tears burned his cheeks as Jose rocked his cousin back and forth, thankful for every curse, for every tide, and yes, for every nurse named Roberto. He could almost hear him now…

      "Mira! Ya llegamos!"

      We've arrived? We've arrived! Jose whispered the news to his cousin. Consuelo smiled sweetly and asked, "For Gloria and Joselito?" Jose smiled back. For Gloria and Joselito.

       Jose left his cousin to the care of another to observe their victory. Everything was for this, their one land of promise. Heaving a sigh worthy of a monstrous ocean, Jose proclaimed to himself, "We did it." He thought of Christmas with his family at Sedanos. "We made it to Mexico."

¤