Wilbur's Story

The fascinating life of Dr. Wilbur McCoy:

Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a giant. Although he was a literal midget in stature, his social importance and community standing towered. I guess what I’m saying is that while Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a dwarf himself, he made his descriptive adjective into a verb by, in turn, utilizing it to describe the way he acted around or unto, being nearby, and around other people. Does that make sense? I know it doesn’t. He dwarfed them while also being a dwarf. There. But size of body doesn’t matter when one’s large heart makes up for the physical deficiency. Not that it was a deficiency. I mean, if he had an absurdly large heart for his body, he could have had medical problems and would have had to utilize the same hospital wing that was built with his money and named in his honor. It was called the West Wilbur Wing. Kids got a giggle when they tried to say the name of the section of the hospital that their mother’s were recuperating within, however its all they could giggle about because, in truth, their mothers were there because they had a very serious alcohol induced car accident just weeks earlier and were forced to lose their jobs with out compensation. The lack of security made the families crumble under the harsh demands of society and its capitalistic frame work. Eventually the hospital would deny the bogus health insurance and they would resort to even more drinking and child negligence. But at least the little kids got a kick out of seeing a midget in a white coat walking through the West Wilbur Wing. They all thought he was a clown. This is why Dr. Wilbur McCoy carried around long balloons, a bicycle horn and a lifetime of sorrows everywhere he went.

What makes this tale truly remarkable is the ending. Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to complete it right now.

A Lover's Essay

A Lover's Essay:

It's like euphoria, sitting next to you on the park bench. You smell like Suave Mountain Breeze Conditioner, which smells more like the Andes than the Alps. There's a subtle hint of Alpaca to its scent. I can think of nothing but how your dirty converse sneakers are ruggedly beautiful. It's like you don't give a damn, but I know you do. The holes in your jeans show that you know how to get down and roll around in the hay, but the lack of straw remnants on your clothing show that you know how to pick off straw remnants from your clothes. Just as you probably question the government, I definitely question why fate had not brought us together years earlier. That book you read, I've never heard of it, it makes you look smart, and that's why you're beautiful. When I subtly look into your eyes I can only see your thick rimmed glasses. This is your way of telling all people, but specifically me, that you need to wear these glasses, that you're not perfect. But I know you are perfect, you probably don't even need to wear those glasses. You humility screams so loudly. I clench my hands over my ears and hum. I pretend to listen to what I think your metallic green iPod nano is playing. I guess that you may be listening to the highly bloggable band 'The Teenagers' but then I realize you are tapping two of your fingers against your knee relatively quickly and I assume that you are probably listening to a more electro-rock band like "Does It Offend You, Yeah?". It doesn't offend me. I digg it. I've digged it.

Now you notice that I have been awkwardly staring at you, and bobbing my head while singing along imaginary music. You scowl. I grin and reach out to you, my Lovely. You run. Ah, yes, the chase is a very important part to courtship. I will play along, I beckon; "I'm gonna get you!" and I chase afterwards with my hands grasping for your hair. Oh, no! I see that you've left your jacket-less book upon the park bench. I will salvage it. There's a lot of creepy people in any given park, I wouldn't want them doing unmentionable things to your favorite Russian author's masterpiece. You've fled. Vanished into the ethereal depths of my memories. I may never see you again. Until I realize that your book club meets on Damen at 8:30 every Tuesday night. It seems that I might see you again, after all. I'll be the guy in the beret. No, not that one, the other one, the one to the left of the red head who says 'eclectic' a lot. No, not the guy you're thinking of, he has auburn hair and a well-trimmed goatee. I would have said, "well-trimmed goatee" if I were talking about him. I'm talking about the red head who wears those jackets with more pockets than he has items to hold. Got it? Good. See you there, my Lovely.