'A Whale of a Bad Time'
Well, the first few weeks were pretty depressing and we won't talk about them. But, man, am I psyched that those days are gone bye-bye. If I had to re-live them, I'm not sure I could. I couldn't, in fact, because Mel will never come back, for one, and two, time doesn't work that way. The future is brighter because of it.
My neighbors made fun of me for keeping a whale. They thought I couldn't find a tank big enough. And, to my shame, I learned that they were right. So I sold the whale to the hermit who lived on the hill outside of town. He had the lumber supplies there to render it down to oil and bone. The perverted old fart had uses for things like that. I cried the day Mel, dripping sadly, left my life. Mel made a long, thunderous chortle, and even the mocking neighbors burst into tears. R.J. even swore on the body of his long dead mama that he would give up ambergris for Lent in Mel's memory.
Like I said, it was pretty depressing, and I dunno how we started talking about it again. What I really wanted to talk about was how when the azalea blooms, it seems like the whole world is new again for a day or two, even if you think that sounds like I wrote it on a slow train back from Yale. After that day or two, of course, the world just sucks rocks, but two days of newness is at least worth something. Oh, who am I kidding? Have I told you about my papier-mache scale model of Mel? I think I might have some talent in that arena, but maybe I'm just kidding myself. I do that sometimes. I'm the only one that bothers: other people don't seem to have any problem with the bald truth when it comes to me. That fat, bald pervert on the hill sure doesn't, anyway. Oh, Mel, Mel, MEL, MEL!!! (from a great distance comes a long, thunderous chortle)
Well, I said I wasn't going to talk about those first few weeks, but that's all I ever really talk about anymore. It sure is depressing, isn't it?
