The Dubious-Claim Capital of the World.

What you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful. Oh, May, do you want to get married, or run away?

Wow, over a week away from the keys. What a stretch it has been: nursing black eyes and a cut face, wilting in the heat of a summer heatwave, travelling to the nation's capital to spend time with old friends, new acquaintances, and long-term crushes. Don't forget, also, the two bottles of absinthe and the road that I slept on. We own the streets.

This is taking a great deal of concentration. I am back, you little sparkling stars. A whole week away has brought on a melancholy in me. I know inside me, more now than perhaps I ever have, that I want to write. I need the ebb and flow of these words. And I want to sing. I am in a band now, and we are writing music worth more than contracts and stardom. I am in the business of questioning everything. I am a professional enquirer. I will probe the deepest recesses of this smoke-and-mirrors world and find the beauty buried beneath the detritus. I am the King of Wishful Thinking.

But, hey, who cares? Not I. This weekend has been full of pretty girls with scarves in their hair and people using a sevens tournament as an excuse to dress in stupid costumes and get paralytic drunk. I can respect that. I would say that there was too much walking engaged in, but that would be insinuating that my drunken stumbling could reasonably be described as something even slightly akin to walking. When you drink a whole bottle of Green Fairy between two people in a little under an hour, your legs tend to leave you for a few hours. The smile doesn't leave, however. I could easily become a raging alcoholic, so it is time to take a few weeks off. See you in the future, my mystic muse.

I want to tell you about the girl with the scarves in her hair. I want to tell you how she talks and smokes and holds a glass in her hand like she's holding a goblet full of water from the fountain of youth. I want to list her virtues. I want to open my eyes and wake up to her lying beside me. But I am asking too much. I am not desired by her, or by anyone with self-respect these days. I could be the personification of romantic-anathema. Pass me your car keys: I'll validate your parking, or your feelings, then you can drive home alone at the end of the night. I am the valet for your heart. Another loss, another resigned sigh.

I am glad to be back, you fair-weather fiends. I meant to spell fiends, too. I don't do things by accident. I know exactly where this is all headed. See you when you get there.

How many failures before you're officially a loser?