July 6 and 7 and 8, 2007

I got a bike.

It’s a too-small BMX. No, there aren’t pegs or shocks and I’m not going to take it off any sweet jumps.

I feel like I’m twelve again. I want to roam the neighborhood. I want to meet up with the gang at the end of the street. I want to share a Benson and Hedges 100 stolen from somebody’s mom’s purse. I want to find a girl who Frenches, take her into the woods, and blindly grope at her ice cream-scoops from the outside of her Starter jacket with the giant pouch.

I need to rig a fucking towel to the seat or something. There’s barely any cushioning on the seat, so I’m basically sitting on steel right now. I also need to get a seat-extender. When I pedal my knees come up to my chest.

Is it bad that it’s usually 9:11 when I look down at the clock?

Emmy Rossum comes into the gym and my heart skips two beats. My celebrity crush. Well, one of them. Naturally beautiful but kind of mean-looking – like she just ate the rest of a browned apple. Definitely not as wholesome as she looks in the movies. I want to tell her that I’m a big fan, but then I remember that I didn’t see Phantom of the Opera, I thought The Day After Tomorrow was laughably bad, and Poseidon is one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen.

So I keep my mouth shut. This thought crosses my mind:

“Tell her she was the wallpaper on your computer for a couple of weeks during your fifth year of college.”

I don’t say that, but probably should have. I know I’d be flattered if a stranger said I was the wallpaper on their computer. Kimberly has a small crush on Ryan Reynolds. Maybe the next time he comes in I’ll say this:

“The girl I sleep with on a regular basis thinks you’re hot.”

Or, if Jessica Alba comes in:

“I’ve masturbated to a picture of you in a bikini. Recently. And I’m 24.”

These are all nice, creepy, genuine compliments. They’re also easy ways to get fired. But how fucking nice would it be to get fired telling Jessica Alba you beat it to her?

And what if she countered with this:

“Raw?”

I’ve started a new script. A high-concept urban comedy. Yes, I’m writing a black movie. For a black audience. It will probably suck in the way that movies that sell and get made suck, but hey, I’m trying to break-in, and since life is a game I figure I’ll try to roll double-sixes and write a dumb, broad, safe-bet money-making piece-of-shit comedy that probably isn’t that funny.

But maybe – just maybe – it’ll get me some recognition and some money so I can buy some shit for my sweet new BMX.

Maybe then I can get the chicks to take off their Starter jackets.