The Foreign Process of Native Familiarization

my personal biggest double handful yet

Here is a sentence which will likely never bow to replacement, especially since it keeps changing, if only slightly.

Oops.

In terms of leadership, there are two ways to epitomize (your position): 

• command your troops to go to a destination and perform tasks
• personally visit, alongside your troops, and demonstrate what to do (in your clearly advertised, and thus properly anticipated, eventual absence)

Is there a third way? I can’t think of a third way worth including. Can you? A third way worthy of inclusion would make sense to me. Go, you. Augment us. Tell me us Way #3.

Do you see what I’m saying, though? Ultimately, leadership comes down to the method of showing (why) versus the strategy telling (how). And in any application of this oft overlooked, unnoticed distinction, the difference can’t be overstated. I would know; I just tried and failed.

Show; don’t tell.

said every screenwriting book ever

For the first time in about 2.102e+7 minutes, I find myself around humans with comfortable regularity, folks with whom I have developed {often accidentally} some degree of rapport. I thought about it just now; on a weekly (if not daily) basis, I encounter 10 unique people, and in so doing, we build upon a previous interaction to which we each contributed varying (but usually rather balanced) degrees of substance. I suppose this constitutes forming a relationship. [And I’m including Buddy in this group even though I’m not sure that he’s aware of my existence, but something tells me that someday, I’ll not merely meet him, he’ll play a critical role in all this.]

The overarching, fascinating point here today, evidently, is not simply that I’ve realized I (kinda) know ten whole people, it’s that I think I like it. I think that I like knowing people! What the hell is wrong with me??

Take this kid, Beaver King, for instance. A 20-year-old dishwasher, his only job title ever; he has been working at Dinner’s for just shy of six years. He performs his assigned function literally better than anyone else in the whole restaurant; I’ve been moved over to “cook.” He’s delightfully full of fun facts (as well as misinformation) and, on a daily basis, he initiates at least one pleasing dialogue sequence. Just now, out of left field, he questions, “Do you like cougars, Bo?” If you’re male, he calls you “Bo.” I dunno; it’s one of his quirks. If you’re female, sorry, he has no “Bo-like” name for you. If you’re female, to BK, you’re scary and weird and should only be whispered about while amongst [or “whilst among”; shit, clearly I dunno] the safe company of fellow males.

“I certainly have nothing against cougars,” I answer truthfully.

It’s as if he didn’t hear me: “If you had one for a pet, what would you feed it?”

“That’s a good question. Philosophically, I’m not sure that I could justify owning a pet cougar; therefore, in all likelihood, I would not own a cougar, or any cat for that matter, whether big or domesticated, but if I did—”

“What would you name it?” I never care when BK interrupts me. Invariably, practically always, I welcome it wholeheartedly. It’s like being rescued from a thought going nowhere.

“Male or female?” I clarify.

“Don’t matter,” he spouts.

I pick the first name that hits my head. “Shania.” Why not?

“I’d name mine Singapore and feed him stray cats.” BK didn’t register my statement [not that he should’ve] because he was too excited to make his own, and, in truth, it was yet another welcome interruption [damn, I can always count on BK to interrupt (anybody) when it’s getting awkward].

I reply before thinking [sometimes I forget that my brain functions at a wonky speed], “Cougars are cats.” It’s almost as if I witness his head hiccuping. Dear lord, what have I done? Come on, BK, snap out of it; you can do this; come back to the light—

“What about horses?” Fucking Christ. Yep. What about ’em? Dare I respond? I suppose I dare. “As far as caloric provisions for Singapore, the prospect of feeding it horses seems far too expensive, among other unfavorable adjectives.” This inadvertent “joke” elicits one of BK’s signature silent laughing fits, but I swear to hell, more and more I think he’s gonna burst a blood vessel in his throat. Eventually he manages to communicate, “I meant do you like ’em, Bo?”

Do I like horses? What kind of question is that? I’m neutral. “Situationally, horses have proven to be a useful mode of transportation.”

“When I was a little kid, this one time,” Beaver King lowers his voice, beginning a confession, transcending the space and time of our brief dialogue, before bringing it back down to earth by admitting, “I threw a rock at a cow and made the sumbitch bleed.”

“Cows are female,” I point out. He doesn’t get it; thus, I expand, “Bulls are male.” Still not registering.

“I didn’t expect to hit it!” sincerely he declares. Poor dude. Still regrets it.

I assure him, “We all do stupid shit when we’re kids.” The curse word I’ve just used has distracted him; I think it’s the first time we’ve had the opportunity to establish this level of trust. Hopefully he won’t tell on me.

Nah, he won’t.

“Have you ever thrown half a granola bar through a window on your thirteenth birthday?”

“Let me think.” I legitimately ponder my thirteenth birthday before quickly ruling out the possibility of having slung any portion of a granola bar through liquefied-then-cooled [i.e. hardened] sand. “No, and in fact, I believe you are the only person I know who can claim such a feat.”

He loves it, grinning ear to ear, getting back to work. I take this opportunity to walk away projecting a forced smile, otherwise he’ll just keep fucking talking forever.

Please, don’t misunderstand. Beaver King is a rare sprout in an arid desert. I appreciate his tri-weekly presence.

The other dishwasher, Caleb, serves as a prime example of why I associate the current teen generation with a shitty work ethic and a weird sense of entitlement. Hugely different from all the generations that came before, it’s like social evolution hit a freakish multiplier and their relative worthlessness has become the most unfortunate outcome. Then I encounter this hotrod-driving kid at my job, and what does he do? Why, he reinforces my belief, of course.

Right now, a day after my most recently eye-opening exchange with BK, mid-afternoon, no orders requiring fulfillment, Caleb is getting paid to be the dishwasher; meanwhile, four full bus tubs and counting need to be washed. But this lad is busy sitting on his squishy ass entranced by a phone. Probably watching porn. Oh, no, he’s laughing, so he’s probably just scrolling through videos of accidental death and impromptu murder. I guess it still could be porn. Murder-porn. Desensitized and disturbed zombie-addicts, these kids today, I tell ya. I saw multiple empty bottles of tanning lotion [SPF 4] in his back seat. He irks me, but I wish no ill will upon him; I figure he’s got it coming anyway.

This is a sudden thought and, disturbing though it may be, I truly would bet (“the farm”) that if Caleb had to walk a mile in the snow to get to school, he would die before reaching the 0.8 mark {assuming a temperature of sub 24°F}.

Wow, I really don’t like being at work when Thierry isn’t on the premises. Come on, “four o’clock,” get here already. [My time is 15:49.]

Speaking of cooking, it’s interesting to watch how various animal proteins respond to heat. But I wouldn’t eat anything “we” serve here at Dinner’s except the mussels. Maybe a side of broccoli.

No offense, Boogie! May you recognize a golden opportunity one day in the future, and then possess the quick-witted wherewithal to capitalize on your fleeting chance to “strike gold”—quite unlike most anyone, sadly.

Boogie’s a friendly blast, in case you wondered. I think he’s gotta be pushing seventy. He’s black; it’s hard to tell how old he is based merely on his racial trait of age camou. He might be 90. Hell, maybe he’s 55. Have you ever heard the expression that “black don’t crack”? Guess why.

Boogie Dinner’s ideally located (and appropriately named) place of business stays open seven days per week, and he’s on site every morning from about 09:30 until 11:15. He just boogies, to be vaguely honest, whirling about, feasting upon interaction with staff and delivery folk, doing stuff that needn’t be done, really, all the while spewing an agreeably contagious energy in all directions. Besides his unwavering attitude, his daily positive force, his grandmother’s seafood gumbo recipe is the (other) sole reason for this place’s persistent existence; it reacts exquisitely with any bud capable of tasting. Were it not for the andouille sausage, I’d eat that, too.

The business itself is very month-to-month.

Boogie’s eldest kid (by 15 years), Doyle Dinner, half black in physical appearance but 100% white in emotional mentality, runs the place officially. I’m not sure exactly what he does, though. I’ve never seen him don an apron. Saw him write an emergency check once after requiring upwards of six minutes to locate the checkbook. He carries around a clipboard upon which he makes blue-penned marks seemingly at random. Always out the door before 14:00 except on {the occasional Friday and} Wednesdays, when, not coincidentally, Thierry’s shift ends at 15:30. He’s overtly “in love” with her and yet he does not notice the way she cringes when he breaches a certain proximity {of about 10 feet, I’d say}. Man, {Doyle,} I get it. She’s an outward goddess and a secret sorceress, and racially they’d [you’d] make a lot more of sense together than I would from her biologically unique perspective in terms of electing to recombine genes with a mammal whose DNA is only half human, for instance at random.

How many people have we covered? Five? Hell, let’s count. BK, Caleb, Boogie, Doyle. Thierry obviously comes last. Oh, Doug. Let’s get Doug outta the way. Remember Doug? He’s the guy with only one dart. It’s still up there, by the way; stuck in that faraway corner of his garage. Give him a break; it’s only been 5 days.

Five seems to be a number that won’t stop recurring.

Hey, should I leave him a pack of darts anonymously? At the time of this thought’s reluctant birth, it was 16:03 on a Monday. Having given you no chance whatsoever to influence my decision in chronologically real time, by 16:39, I had successfully left The Douginator a pack of (6) darts, anonymously. That’s one whole dart, six times. When he finally works out a way to safely recover his main dart, he’ll have 7. At that point, I’m not sure what’ll happen. Doug’s brain might overload. He may need to hurry toward the nearest toilet. He might hurl the darts (in rapidly inaccurate succession) at the snotty kid peddling the painfully noisy Big Wheel every damn night way beyond bedtime. I didn’t leave the pack of darts in the mailbox for fear that Amerphsla would find them and somehow that said discovery would lead to poor D’s ignorance of their presence. I’m not including Amerphsla in this, by the way. I don’t know her well enough. To me, at this point, she’s just an extension of Doug, like an uncontrollable {thus unwanted} third arm growing [yes, still growing {while the body’s entire remainder ages/dies}] from the middle of his lower back. So it’s kinda like an arm-tail you can’t control. Nobody wants that. You don’t want an appendage operating behind your back, independent of your awareness, with four digits and an opposable thumb.

Anyhow, there’s five of them. Number 6 has to be Annette. We’ve spoken a few times now in passing. She sits on her porch playing solitaire quite a bit these days since the scorching heat has fucked off for the season. Well, maybe. Who knows these days? If Thierry is obviously 10 on this list, then, hmm, who’s 7-9? I really don’t know as this exclamatory sentence unfolds! This has evolved to become a mildly amusing thought experiment, and right now, darkness having fully fallen, I know that Thierry is waiting for me to log in and play a game with her. Don’t worry; she’s fine; got plenty of thorium-/gold-farming to do.

I’m giving #7 to Joan Smythe. Her maiden name, notably {apparently [because here we are]}, was Gunn. You might reckon she downgraded. She also votes Republican no matter what, which is weird to me given that her favorite book, at least allegedly, is The Hobbit. She’s also a weekly regular at Dinner’s. Over the last few months, 98% of the time she has taken full advantage of Boogie’s new experiment in deliveries which can be made by a reasonably fit person on foot. It’s not guaranteed. Customers call and question with childlike hope, “Hey, can y’all deliver right now?” Then the staff takes seven minutes to make the determination after an untold sequence of unqualified consults. I don’t think the experiment is working. BK typically returns from his deliveries weighing an extra 5 pounds from sweat (soaked into his tee/shorts). He also gets lost every time. Anyway, Joan only lives diagonally across the main drag, more or less, and Doyle has been “stopping by” a couple times a week at night, and “since he happens to be around anyway,” he delivers her order. Now, Joan, 37, is a recent divorcee having successfully navigated 4 childbirths—her kids are all asshats; shares custody of the whole litter with 3 different men; she’s single and rightly ready to mingle—so I think she earns far less blame in this “affair.” Doyle, childless, has been “happily married” for over 20 years. He’s 43. Or is it 47? Not that any of this really matters.

Does it??

Hell, maybe it does.

Are we “gossipping”? God, I hope not. I’m only trying to relay info that could impact emotional relevance. Far as I know, Thierry is the only other person aware of their shenanigans, but obviously I picked up on it (long before she confirmed my “suspicion”). Obvious shit is obvious. Damn. The main reason I think Joan might be important enough to include in this pointless list is that I’m pretty certain that if Thierry has a “BFF” around here, Joan has earned that title. She’s a good ten years older, (as) if that matters, and in case you didn’t know.

How am I supposed to know which details are most relevant here? I’m quite sure all the blanks will be stuffed full of fluffy filling in other formats at some point in the past/future.

I’m freaking out about 8 and 9 because I have no friggin’ clue who they are. I guess we’ll come back to them when their times come.

Thierry’s car wouldn’t start this morning, so she arrives half an hour late to work on that little cruiser bicycle [the same one that she now borrows occasionally from a sweet kid in the neighborhood]. Later tonight, I’ll learn that she actually purchased the bicycle. I do not know how much she gave (because I did not ask), but I’m aware that she paid far more than it’s worth. She works a double today and I get off at 14:00. We decide that I will go have (another) look at her car.

From Thierry’s cheap rental house to the old car parked in the driveway, her choices in the category of basic necessities—at least, within the context of American society and culture—are all made with function prioritized over form. Her abode is crap, but it provides her with shelter. Her car is a heap of junk, but (sometimes) it gets her from A to B. Her clothes are cheap, but they cover her body.

My covertly fast car occupies curbspace across the street corner two houses down from where Thierry hangs her hat{s}. All the houses in this neighborhood are unique and different from each other in appearance, but they are virtually identical in terms of worth.

Thanks to access provided by a key, now I’m inside Thierry’s kitchen, reading the grocery list stuck to the side of the refrigerator with a magnet shaped in the half-portion of a dog including its ass/tail.

bans
mands
grapes
pineapp
yams & yukes
leafy gees
tee pee
deo
toofbrush
bal vin
gelato?
nuts
eggs

I could spent 10,000 words dissecting this grocery list. I’ll abstain, right? [At least for now.] Also, no idea why I brought in my gym bag. But now that I’ve made this would-be blunder, I should leave it in front of the door I’ll have to open in order to vacate the premises. I doubt I’m going to the gym later.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Like…period. At all.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I test the motion sensors, which all send alerts to my phone. They’re working as intended. Tremendous news, this. During the just-mentioned sequence of testing, I knew what I was doing the whole time. Go figure.

Thierry’s bedroom is neglected. Not much time spent in here—for any reason. There’s a Nintendo Switch hooked up to the television. Cute. Breath of the Wild in play. Cuter. Ah, upon closer inspection, it’s her only game. Cutest.

It’s amazing to truly realize what a stiff breeze can do.

It’s a nice day. All aspects of weather/climate: moderate. Were I a belanoc, I’d strike tonight. [Let’s go, bitch.]

By free admission, again, reader, I am letting you know that I’ve hidden a small GPS locator amid the mess of guts under her old clunker’s hood. Opening a hidden app on my phone and confirming that the device is sending its location to me, I shut the trunk and send a text message to Thierry:

	The life of your fan belt has expired.
Ugh! Got a wild idea how much that will cost to rectify?
	Already fixed. Part was 58 dollars. Installed freely and with absurd ease.
Oof! No!
	I guess I should warn you that there’s a hefty smorgasbord of other issues that could go wrong any day now.
💔

By now, I’ve strategically placed 21 33 38 motion sensors around the neighborhood, all centered around detecting late-night foot-traffic filtering toward Thierry’s humble abode. None invade the privacy of another. Even I have morals.

The time is 21:49 at my secret house. Thierry and I find ourselves in the World of Warcraft. Out of nowhere, she asks, “What’s your place like?”

This question accomplishes many feats; for example(s):

1. lets me know that she wonders what my home is like (in a general sort of way)
2. tells me that she would like to know more about me on a personal level
3. advertises curiosity
4. invokes naughty thoughts that I can’t help
5. broadcasts an adventurous spirit

What’s your place like?

Thierry, softly

Such an innocent question, but it made me imagine her being here with me, and now I think my heart is fluttering. The weirdness of that fact can’t be overstated.

“It’s pretty basic. I’m very much a minimalist.” My rent is cheap; my shit is expensive.

Let’s address #8. This is how long it took me to come up with Number Eight. And it’s so obvious. Goddamn, could it be more fucking obvious? It’s you. Eight is you. You are eight. Hey, 8!

Nine is someone who has not yet infiltrated your awareness. She’s a girl/lady/woman currently on Boogie’s payroll. She’s very weird, equally depressed, disarmingly smart, and itching to initiate a divorce. Due to oratorically related reasons that I believe commemorate her centennial date of birth, I’m pretty sure she’s 30 {if not 32} years old. Then again, fucking hell, maybe she’s 19. She’s lived a hard life, methinks. She engages me in confoundingly intelligent conversation when I least expect it. Even now knowing to expect it when I least expect it, she remains one step ahead, entrapping me in smartly deep convos with the thickest of southern accents. This happens once or twice a week.

Her name is Kristyn Huron. She’s very pretty, but she looks like she should be stupid. But stupid, she is not. She’s oddly quick and curiously clever. I think she makes Thierry jealous, but I can’t be sure because I’ve only seen them in the same room once (on my first day of work [for about 3 minutes]). I don’t know what she means (to me) yet, but I’m certain that I must have made her acquaintance for at least one useful reason.

I guess humans aren’t as dumb, overall, as I previously thought. Hooray!

If I’m “flirting with her” [Kristyn], then it is not my intention. Furthermore, I don’t know what the hell Thierry is “doing to” me. Moreover and by possibly unnecessary admission, Kristyn, just by being herself and emanating sexual energy, unwittingly causes physiological responses that make me wish I weren’t wearing gym shorts. I feel like an innocent bystander watching a dreamlike sequence of life unfold before my very eyes.

I want to talk to Thierry. I want to ravage KH. Deeply. Both. Now. That’s all I know. I’m sure it’s impermissible and wrong to think/feel. But there’s a big damn difference between the two, is there not? I can’t help but think these feelings stem from separate sources.

Also, am I thinking or feeling? Do I want or need?

Think about what you want while feeling out and acting upon your needs.

Kristyn Huron

See? KH knows a thing or two. She’s got a sneaky-adept brain.

Wee hours of the morning again in Thierry’s neighborhood; 03:16 to be precise. Perched near the top of Sam [not the usual branch; about 9 feet higher and less sturdy], on high alert, I watch over and guard her home. She feels safe in my presence. And excluding my daily morning nap from 7 to 10, she has been in my presence, or at the very least under my protection, constantly for the past twenty-six days and twenty-seven nights. Therefore, regardless of her knowledge, she has felt safe constantly during that timeframe.

By the by, why do I include Kristyn at #9? I’m not entirely sure, but I guess the answer is easy. She works part-time at Boogie’s and is the only other female human to have a noticeable effect on my full-body blood flow. But, by this point, I’m not sure it means anything outside of a viably joint, reproductive capability. In other words, Kristyn and I could fuck and {if she survived} make reliably special babies. Doesn’t mean we should; just means our chemicals are suggesting that we should. She’s also very recently into yoga; whether this means anything at all, I know not, but, regarding yoga, I have recently become curiously curious—before catching wind of her or Thierry’s existence [who also swears by yoga], mind you, for whatever that’s (not) worth.

Anyway, whatever, now it’s time for her, Miss Dynamite, #10 obviously. What the hell should I say about her? Three things, probably. Here comes number one (followed logically {in order} by 2 and 3):

1. Eat the human brains left and then call it a day, right?
2. Whether leaning toward either side of the g/b equation, neither is likely to incentivize the destruction of humanity.
3. Root for the underdog!

Okay, maybe that made no sense. In other words, Thierry confounds me with her feminine wisdom (that seems to pervade her physical years). Perhaps, she’s even smarter than I yet realize, which would be a most welcome addition to the well-balanced cocktail of emotional turbulence that propels my daily mission forward, which is almost always wrought with indecision.

Number 10

Right now she and I are alone, on the clock, chatting in the small office that doubles for a break room [more like a closet]. She’s telling me a rather long story that she told me last week. She has done this before. I always enjoy it. She tells me a previously told story a new way by putting a slightly different spin on it; I didn’t mind then and I don’t mind now. I can tell that she’s excited to tell the story, so I’m happy to hear her retelling. Listening to her talk is fun. She’s funny. I wonder if she could hide her own Easter eggs.

Upon rubbing my eyes without realizing that I’m rubbing my eyes, Thierry notices, “You look tired.”

“Light insomnia,” I explain, truthful enough.

“Wanna smuggle some wine in to a double feature tonight at the new theater with the reclining leather seats?”

Yep! “Sure.”

22:01. Side-by-side and thoroughly cozy in reclining leather movie theater seats, Thierry and I laugh together at the comedy onscreen. When our eyes meet, laughter gives way to giddy smiles as thoughts drift into pleasant daydreams.

00:08. Credits have been rolling for a minute or two. I have to pee and I’m hungry and I’m thirsty and I really want ice cream. Thierry blurts, “What’s at the top of your bucket list?”

I laugh at the lack of obvious connection to her previous thought, which currently escapes me, but I’m sure I’ll think of it later and edit it in, and that makes me wonder whether you will even notice.

“To go to space and feel zero gravity.” I still feel good about that answer. (I wonder how much time you think has passed since this moment.)

“Yeah, that seems important, relatively speaking. Good answer.”

Even better response. I redirect, “What’s at the top of your list?”

“Just like yours, my number one involves traveling. I want to see a narwhal. Preferably at first from a descending hot air balloon.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because your number one is also my number three.”

Her affectionate laughter elicits mine.

I drive while Thierry taps on her phone next to me. She can tell that I wonder what she’s doing. Oh, well. Can’t conceal curiosity. Upon conclusion, she informs me, “I was just writing something down that I didn’t want to forget.”

“I didn’t mean to appear nosy.”

“You didn’t at all.”

“Do you write down a lot of thoughts that you don’t wanna lose?”

“Yes. Probably too much. I got my first diary from Santa Claus when I was seven.”

“Have you always kept a diary since then?” I’m genuinely interested here. Nothing sinister is afoot.

“Always. From 7 until about 10 or 11, I filled up like 18 diaries, and some of them were thick. Then I got an email account and started emailing myself entries. Now I just do it on my little notepad app. And Google Docs. Hell, I’m writing notes to myself that I’ll never receive.”

“That’s excellent,” I surrender to a small fit of laughter; can’t help it. “Writing down thoughts is largely why humanity has progressed the way it has.”

She smiles at me; thinks it’s funny when I get tickled, evidently. “Guess I’m doing my part then.”

I’m curious: “Do you still have your 18 diaries?”

“No,” she pouts, “I lost them when I moved. It’s the only thing I wish I still had from my childhood.”

I’m a different person around her. I smile involuntarily. I actually laugh. I’ll bet I haven’t laughed regularly since the early nineties when I frequented {for less than 3 months} a certain card game night in a nerdy shop tucked away in a sketchy strip mall.

In my eyes, Thierry is perfection personified in female form.

I hope I’m not mentally ill.

I’m beginning to suspect that we’ve seen (some of) this before.

A day passes. Or is it a week? Does it really matter?

Time does that thing where it elapses.

19:14. Near the start of a nature and fitness trail, I convene alongside Thierry in the shade, catching our breath, trying to stay loose in preparation for another 200-meter sprint to the top of the adjacent steep hill. Twenty feet to the left, a thin line of dead grass unfolds straight up the hill, but our relative position indicates (to anyone paying close attention {which would be creepy}) that we’ve plotted a slightly longer and steeper route that provides more of a challenge than the beaten path.

The trail constitutes a small part of the park that anchors the town’s Parks & Recreation department, sprawling across hundreds of acres with a variety of amenities like outdoor basketball, volleyball, disc golf, multiple playgrounds, etc. However, the main focus of the facility self-reveals itself via the centrally located several softball and baseball fields of various dimensions. One adult league softball game winds down and another looks to have recently concluded.

Thierry’s impressive wealth of hair sits pinned atop her head in a loose bun. She wears tight-fitting, functional workout clothes supposedly made from cutting-edge fabric, and she wears them well, anatomically and physiologically broadcasting her comprehensive familiarity with exercise.

Sweating buckets, I repeatedly wipe my brow with one of the two saturated sweatbands on either wrist.

“You’re the sweatiest person I’ve ever met,” Thierry alleges, her endearment plain to see.

“It’s genetic,” I explain. “I come from a long line of sweaters.” Another truthful admission. Shit. I’m afraid I might lose track of my lies soon.

“I only bring it up because in spite of all this sweat, I can tell that you’re holding back.”

“You are a remarkably fast runner,” blatantly I inform her, knowing that she already knows.

“Okay, yes, true,” she jokes. “You got me there. But. I know what running at top speed looks like no matter who’s doing the running, and I haven’t seen you hit fifth yet, let alone sixth.”

She is insanely observant and even smarter than I first realized. Why am I telling myself inside my head what I already know? I don’t know what to do. How much effort should I give? I’ve been going at slightly more than half speed. Bump it up to 70%? That seems too close to the peak of current human potential. God, why didn’t I receive a training manual for this??

Trapped in a tailspin of indecision, I stand ready at the start of our next sprint. She reminds me, “Full speed ahead.” Playfully, I salute her. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.”

“Set, go.” Off she goes as fast as her body will take her. I follow despite my uncertainty. About 45 seconds later, the sprint is over. I definitely finished more first than I intended. Thierry pants heavily in recovery from our exertive burst of energy. I tap into what little talent I have as an actor to display a level of fatigue comparable to hers. Hands on knees, then on head, back to knees, rinse, repeat. Respiration gradually regulates. “Damn, I am tired, which I find to be unpleasant.” [No, I didn’t say that; I thought it.]

“So here’s the thing,” Thierry blabs, still sucking plenty of wind. “If for some reason you wanted to do it and you got real serious about training, you could compete in the Summer Olympics next year.”

I rustle up an awkward chuckle while stretching my quads needlessly.

“I’m so serious,” she continues and indeed sounds serious. “You could definitely qualify to compete in the 200 and the 400. Shit, maybe the 800. Can you run that fast for 800 meters?”

“Definitely not,” I proclaim. “Couldn’t do 400, to be honest.”

She eyes me. She has this way of eyeing me—very expressive, communicative, layered. And it’s usually when I’m full of shit about something. Yuck. I don’t like lying to her, but I don’t know if she’s ready to know that I ran my fastest mile a decade ago in under 147 seconds. I’ve slacked off on my endurance training in recent years because I loathe it [the training itself {specifically the way it makes me feel}].

Thierry still finds herself surprised and impressed. “I’ve never seen a runner able to hit that many gears. I thought you were at top speed four different times—actually…” she suddenly reroutes her train of thought thanks to a realization, “did you even reach top speed?”

“Starting to think I exceeded it.” Idiot. 60% would have been plenty.

“I’m glad you suck at getting off the blocks, otherwise I’d suspect you of being an alien or superhero or cyborg.”

Ha! I am definitely none of those things.

Thierry was a track star in grade/high school. Turned down a scholarship to her dream university [Middlesex University {London}] to stay home with her longtime boyfriend who had never gone more than 6 months without cheating on her in their 4-year relationship. Once they got to uni, he never wasn’t cheating on her in one way or another. If he wasn’t actively cheating, then he was making plans to cheat or putting himself in positions where cheating was a probable outcome. She has no idea that I know any of this. Now that I’ve thought more about it, I want to find this fool and harm him.

Need she another introduction? Nay, she need not. You know her and (ought to) already love her. She was born Madeleine Abigail [surname redacted] and became an illegal British transplant to the United States of America, now going by the self-appointed name [since 2012] Thierry Nova Tuck. She and I—we’ve been through some shit{e}. I can’t wait to tell her. Equally, I look forward to her telling me; I know she’ll be glad/eager to spill the beans. We’ve each collected so many beans to spill all over one another. Already I know she won’t be mad [that’s too stupid] at my clearly unavoidable deception [she’s too smart to get angry about sound logic]. She will understand the fateful intersection of our plights with virtual immediacy, feel an overwhelming sense of relief that our paths have led us to cross, and she shall most likely come to believe that we’re bonding in ways I’ll be not able to disprove.

Hidden beneath your most rankless of individuals, TNT is your crusading knight in shining armo{u}r. She wields the word that will save your (human) race. She’s a poet who doesn’t yet really know it.

The shit will surely hit the fan before any of this has a chance to play out.

Where are you these days, Trae?! Would love to catch up over coffee in the city and at the location of your choosing.

The Ten
(in no particular order, probably)

1. Beaver King [Calvin Samountry]
2. Caleb Miller
3. Boogie Dinner
4. Doyle Dinner
5. Doug (+ Amerphsla) Expert
6. Annette Francois
7. Joan Gunn
8. You
9. Kristyn Huron
10. Thierry Nova Tuck

On this day in 2019, Guy Fawkes Day, waiting for the firestorm of all time to materialize and start wreaking havoc on the foundations of civilization, above are the ten humans with whom I am most frequently in contact—whether from afar or up close and personal—and with whom I have most deeply connected, who I most thoroughly know and have concluded I’d probably (calculatedly) risk my life to save from certain death.

Tomorrow, that list could see significant shifts. I can think of 4 spots easily up for grabs. You haven’t met everyone yet; get real. I mean, the list of ten only includes six of my colleagues. That means I’ve excluded twenty-two of my colleagues.

Who the fuck are they? Where am I? More importantly, where are you?

Today is the fifth day of November. A day I’ll always remember [mainly because of Guy]. I can’t believe I’m still playing the waiting game.

Gosh, maybe, before this day’s conclusion—like, say, oh, about 23:56—I’ll be forced to lop of another head [Fausta’s] to save Thierry from her vengeful fangs, all the while TNT wonder’s why I’ve gone AFK unannounced in the middle of Zul Farrak. Among my myriad motion sensors, I’ve identified #36 as the last one that should be detecting any movement. When #36 alerts me unexpectedly, I don’t even type “brb.” Within half a minute, I’m hiding high in Sam, armed and prepared to die. And here comes Fausta. I wonder if she saw me. Nope, clearly not. She’s not being careful. A thirst for revenge clouds her judgment.

A well-timed, scattered thunderclap camouflages the heavy thud from my aerial assault and the subsequent carnage of the encounter, and it gave my “shoddy” internet a believable reason to crap itself for a while; the weather’s always worse over there by the bay. Five clean slices in less than three seconds; with my trained guidance, Halcyon puts the beastly hag Fausta out of her contagious misery.

By the time I return to my hidden home, I’ve been kicked from my WoW group, as expected. Thierry knew I’d understand. I mean, it only made sense. I wasn’t even pissed. She wasn’t either. One of the tryhard kiddos did send me a salty tell to which I never bothered responding. He was what they call a “huntard.” In the group’s defense, I did fail to mention to that I had run outside (IRL) to decapitate a belanoc before it was able to eat their tank’s brain [again, IRL]. So, yeah, that was on me.

Nonetheless, they completed the dungeon run, Thierry Sêth upgraded two pieces of gear, and I didn’t let Thierry get apprehended and/or murdered. All in all, if I do say so myself, this was a good night!

Good night.

Faustina and Fausta, both down, both disappeared [{in} neighboring watery graves].

The dreaded day of reckoning now looms uncomfortably close, ever-shredding my remaining semblance of sanity.

Never have I been so afraid, nor invigorated. Let’s go.

Any day now, either Vilfred, Severus, or both {plus friends} will be here with the immediate intention of figuring out why TNT still lives, and what the hell happened to F&F. That’s gonna lead someplace with consequences. Consequential traps, to be more specific, that, hopefully, I will be able to set.

A ball is about to start rolling, and soon after, I suspect that it will gather momentum. That’s how these things normally unfold, you see. Snowballs actually have an excellent chance in hell.

We were addressing another matter, however. What was it? Oh, yes…

When you suspect that you’re falling in love, not knowing whether you might die in battle any day now kind of sucks, but it also cultivates an otherwise unattainable appreciation for any time spent meaningfully connecting to/with another sentient being.

Sometimes, when you feel yourself falling, I guess you just have to trust that you’ll be caught.

Otherwise, I suppose the worst thing that can happen is that you learn a valuable lesson about your trust rope.

I think this is what they call a “win/win” situation!