New Years in Nova Scotia…

We’ll meet sometime before New Years, trying to decide whether or not we want to really waste New Years together, and decide that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have seasonally-tainted monkey sex after too many drinks. We won’t be comfortable enough with each other by that point to introduce each other to our “real” friends, so it’ll be some strange amalgamation of our less-liked neighbors and that one guy from the video store that you are pretend friends with that you’re always casually ignoring invitations to go hang out with. The Tequila Time Machine will do it’s infernal work on us and, long story short, we end up married in West Virginia and legally bonded to work as journeymen (or journeyfolk? journeypeople?) in a steel foundry until we can sneak out at a lunch break and make for a west bound train. One thing will lead to another, and I’ll end up selling you for two bags of Mexican marijuana and a room-temperature human kidney to some Czech ex-military types in Denver. While you learn how to properly obey your new Iranian sex-father, I’ll try to “keep it together” during a Wackenhut Security interrogation at the Salt Lake City Greyhound terminal. Someone will be saying something about someone, possibly me, executing some bodily function on the Flagstaff to Boise express, the telltale kidney still throbbing around (I guess that’s what a telltale kidney would do) inside the lighter-sealed cellophane from a half dozen packs of Camels in my shirt pocket. The marijuana will make it to Boise without me, and some poor soul who cleans the busses will have the best day of his life. You’ll eventually steal fifty American cents from some visiting dignitary/executve who is too embarassed to look at you after he’s finished off in your hair, and manage a call to a friend who can front you a couple of grand for a flight back, but the only flights you can find go through Jersey and you can’t imagine how that would be any better than sex slavery, so you look for other options. Once I’ve convinced the head chuckle-dick that my kidney actually fell out and I needed to seek medical help, I’ll find a blood and oil stained piece of paper with your number on it. Counting backwards, I realize that I don’t know how many days it’s been since our date. I figure two more and I’ll call, that’s what they said in that Swingers movie and look at the shirts those guys wore, they were so fucking cool. After a sort of X-rated version of Yentl, you end up on a garbage steamer taking Korean industrial garbage to the US to sell as clothing. You’ll be forced to endure clothing-trying-on-montage after clothing-trying-on-montage while the friendly but frighteningly violent homosexual sailors attempt to make you laugh. The second you try to go to sleep you’ll feel their hungry eyes on you and the memory of the things they whisper to each other in the night will make it hard to sleep for the rest of your days. When you get home, the immensity of the horror you have endured will make you forget that I was the one who sold you into white slavery to begin with, and that, my dear, is the basis of a good relationship.

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