My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "There is no free will," said the city man with stubble and a popped up shirt collar. "There are only shirts, and small rooms with white walls, and societal influences beyond your control." "Clearly," replied the writer with a forkful of cheesecake, "you don't know what the fuck free will is." Outside, Armageddon was blooming like a coked out flower doing one last crash binge before the end. And in the world of San Francisco, syringes formed faces and kissed on the shit-covered asphalt. And before you knew, there was a second Pride, and rainbows formed to cover the cracks and scars of the abandoned storefronts and skyscrapers. And all was well, after all - because we couldn't control Doomsday, no matter how hard we tried. Except for the city man. He went to sleep full knowing that he was an automaton - because he hadn't been able to buy the cake he wanted at the local grocery store, and beforehis date, he had...

We will not attack - we will defend. We will not seize - we will apprehend. We will not detain - we will preserve. We will not traumatize - we will disturb. We will not hold back - we will not desist. We will not act coy - we will resist.

So. What did I do since my last introspection? I spent hours with a great friend of mine and my wife, drinking wine and shooting the shit. I went on a bike ride with my mom. I played a lot of Heroes of the Storm I did some editing work for a friend. I got to see some former students of mine at the Farmer's Market. And I went mini-golfing for free with the wifey. Did I do a lot of teacher work? No. Did I do a lot of writing? No. And I'm learning to forgive myself for that. I have a nasty habit of doing a bunch of stuff at once and then just crashing. It's part of the reason why I have swollen feet (which I could have very well sprained after that harsh day at the gym; I'ma see a doctor about them soon). So I have to remind myself that a little bit of work, and then a little bit of rest? That's fine. I'm allowed that. I have my own subjective idea of when the work I do is enough, and it's not just societal expectations. It's my expectations...

Why My Date Left by Belinda Roddie Purple miniature golf balls do not taste like grape soda.

The Man Who Hid by Belinda Roddie The man who hid behind a tree wore shades and bore stubble like dark and somber roots growing across a volley. Kids in spades wandered down the street in sandals and boots, the Farmer's Market lively. Yet he stood staring at the gray bark as if to bore a hole through the old trunk. It took a good two minutes or so 'til he moved some more, leaning on his cane, head jerking back and forth from one side of the tree and then to the other. Was he hiding from a friend or foe? Was he surveilling crowds and crews and gaggles of townsfolk? I'll never know, since his story is not mine to be told.

Man, that joke was so good that you left me in stitches. I mean, literally. I laughed so fucking hard, I fell off my stool and took my half full pint of lager with me. Wound up breaking the damn glass and leaving gashes large enough to land flying saucers in. Fucking grand canyons, those wounds. So I got all knitted and crocheted up at the ER. Still, though, fan-fucking-tastic joke. Well worth the steep medical bills I got now.