Parish, Frank
JOURNAL ENTRY 02

I spend a good couple of weeks banging the blonde, and the deal seems almost too sweet because she rarely talks at all. She seems pretty distant and broken up inside. I notice her lingering over her husband's picture several times, creepily smelling the clothes he left behind and whatnot, crying silently to herself often. It's not just the clothes the twerp left behind, though; this guy meant business when he left because he hasn't set foot in his own place since, not even to pick up his sweet big-screen TV. Were it me, no way I'd leave my stuff here for the whore to enjoy. I'd come back, get one last romp in the sack and be done with it all. I guess he's got something to prove.

All this broad's depression is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she keeps mostly to herself and screws like she's trying to hump the pain away. Bonus! On the other hand, all this dark, gloomy misery stuff ebbs at my patience. Caught her in the bathroom with some razors but acted like I didn't see anything to avoid a conversation. Guess it suited her 'cause she never mentioned it either. Free pass to a super stacked blonde is one thing, but I don't want to be calling the cops to scrape her brains off the floor if she decides to check out. That's freaking gross.

If she had any kind of job, I guess she lost it, because she doesn't leave the house. I spend long days at the office, kicking back and calling my secretary in and out so she can flirt with me. She loves to flirt with me. It's a gift card I've been waiting to cash in; I have to execute that one just right, don't need another sexual harassment charge when I kick her to the curb. At any rate, I empty any sexual frustration I collect into the blonde, who readily lets me into the house whenever I show up. From what I can tell, she mostly vegetates in front of the TV, following the news obsessively, which is all that ever seems to be on anymore. I don't mind it. Some nights I even bring takeout, which she never eats, and watch with her. All kinds of crazy in the world, talking dinosaurs turning prisons into hippie hospitals and the president all over the screen shaking its big scaly hand, and the whole thing freaks me right the heck out.

One afternoon after giving her the good stuff, I'm sitting naked on the couch, pinching an unlit cigarette and smelling it like a cigar. She's wound up like a fetus next to me, also naked, looking blank and detached. I reach into my disembodied trousers, fish my Zippo from the pocket, and flick the lid, which makes a loud shucking sound, breaking the otherwise silent mood.

"Hey," I say to her, gesturing for her attention with a nod of my head. "Got a light?" I laugh, remembering these words were all it took to land this gig, the words and a little elbow grease. She just stares, looks like a blank sheet of paper, breathes like a ghost.

"Oh yeah," I sigh, lighting up the cigarette and leaning back on the couch all naked and awesome. To my side, the blonde starts crying. I act like I can't hear her and turn up the TV.

On the screen, that lizard man is back at his podium, flash bulbs exploding a mile a minute, people shouting "Belial! Belial!" and he's got both clawed hands in the air like he's the president. The weepy naked blonde next to me perks up and cranes her head to get a better view of the screen.

At full 1080p HD resolution, the talking dinosaur says: "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am proud and bold in heart: and ye shall find freedom unto your souls. For my yoke is myself, and thus my burden is light."

I shrug, and, blowing smoke from my nostrils, I say, "Makes sense to me." Next to me, giving me quite a start, the blonde speaks up for the first time in a while. Sitting up on the couch, never taking her eyes from the screen, with a breathy weight in her voice like air from a tire, she says, "It makes sense to me too."