Sexual. Prisoner.

He's one of these guys who's all eyebrows, y'know what I mean?
I just wanted to conduct some video game business at the video game store.
No different from any other retail job (and in several ways worse), EB Games can slowly rot one's soul.
I always try to avoid this guy who works there.
At a glance I can tell he's the store's manager. At a glance.
All eyebrows.
The sort of person who frowns so much that trying to look "okay" or "fine" seems visibly painful.
Pissy. Just constant, sour, everyday pissiness.
Pissy one day. Pissy the next day. Pissy at every turn.
That's this guy.
I always try to be cordial to EB guys because I know how much the job sucks.
Though he doesn't deserve it (he doesn't), I try the same with him.
It's just considerably more difficult, which is why I avoid him.
Anyway, the point is, we do our dealings, and he's just so contrary.
Like, if someone were to try and hug him at that moment, he'd mumble "No" and try to shake them off.
Grabbing the goods, I wheel and say under my breath, "Jesus Christ, buddy, you need to get laid."
It has been about 48 hours, and I'd bet that he still needs to get laid.
I'd also wager that his facial expression hasn't changed since, either (I mean that).
Like the dolphin and the swine, we need sex.
The great equalizer, sex resets all of our emotional modems, I would think.
We all know this, of course.
But in a sense, we're all prone to forgetting it, too.
It's only after the side plates are in shards on the floor and we're holding damp clothes to fat lips that we realize:
"Hey, I think we just needed some sex there."
I had this really vivid dream about being in prison last night.
It felt disturbingly Oz-like.
Oz Group Showers.
Not Oz Tin Man.
The food was bad, they wouldn't let me keep my cell phone, I couldn't communicate with loved ones.
And worst of all? They wouldn't let me out.
Brian Aylward was a fellow inmate, and, as in real life, he acted as a conduit for deliberate, brutal logic.
Mentoring me through the concept of fighting someone (so that I wouldn't be established as a 'bitch'), he was there to provide the only advice available.
Today I've been left to wonder if this was a subconscious metaphor for my comedy 'career.'
If that were the case, George Price would be the guy I'd barter with for cigarettes.
And Steve Coombs would be the warden's daughter.