Nocturnal operations

Grins were exchanged, deft and forgiving. His and mine, respectively. i don’t actually write like that. i don’t actually think like that. i’m more unself-conscious than my slurred and choppy speech lets on. i don’t actually believe that. but so we’re clear, he was in fact allaying the irritation brought on by his response when I asked him if he still works out. he actually likes his life, he told me. ‘actually’—the ultimate operator. he finished with a warm towel shave and some pomade magic. castor oil, pg, glycerin, and fragrance. it all stuck together. even at home, where i sat for the next three hours and overdosed on nicotine and propylene glycol. i know this because i started sweating and was subsequently disappointed to find that that was the extent of it. my first oh-dee was a serious let down. secreting and all, i opened gmail and wrote to eric lehre. he was discharged from the navy for downloading porn in the early 2000s. softcore by today’s standards. he was a commodore, now he’s a seaman-turned-post-doc. he was 52, now he’s pushing 70. i need citations. i need a towel. ‘send’. i need to check tomorrow’s weather because google calendar tells me i have a horological obligation to sleep but like fate the blue light cascade is just that much more tempting, and funnily enough it’s a high of 2 degrees celsius. don’t check youtube. don’t check instagram. don’t beat off. the lanolin in your lipchap does more harm than good. you cannot coat a cure over this disease. there’s sodium lauryl sulfate in your toothpaste, idiot. it’s the froth that gives it that sweet sweet marketing allure. there’s sodium pareth sulfate washed into your crewneck. there’s sodium 2-aminopentanedioate ‘naturally’ ‘occurring’ in the entrails of the tomato sauce being swept from your teeth—it’s fine. it’s natural. it occurs, so you’ve heard. a palestinian scholar suggests that anti-msg hysteria is a byproduct of anti-oriental racism and its arrival in western cuisine should come at no alarm. it occurs, so they say. it’s only glutamate. meek as lambs. windows 8 says its wednesday but a telco says its mental health day but duolingo says its mercredi. its a loveless ménage and its about time we started talking about it. but not before sleep, and not before recounting your day to the woman waiting for you. don’t tell her about the lanolin. actually do. but not the nicotine, and not the glycerol, and not the minimized word doc youre not actually hiding from anyone. read it to her. under no cirumstances tell her about your strange, uncomfortable affair with that blue blue light that robs her of her monopoly. Do not remind her of the deadlines. practice gratitude amid the intimate. convert yourself, and practice. actually practice. take her with you to slurry half-sleep, unsqueezed through that hole where language so naturally occurs. exchanging arms, un-gamely mollified tremors: like antabuse for oblivion. an actual, actual guilt of mine. her eyes flutter, lightly. it’s blue: a very short wavelength. this is worth remembering, advisable to recall, to push through that hole at some later time at some later small romance.  but first actually go to bed. hold still. actually fall asleep