I'm not sure the difference in the two anymore. I want lots of things. I need nothing. Therefore, I now know I want nothing. Therefore, after I said that, I now want something.
To restart this post, for instance. Right. Right. Right. Wanting. To want what thou doesn't have is to need what thou needeth most. Make sense of that and I'll give ya a lollipop.
A wise man once told me at a bar that I had a trusting face. He was an old man, and sat with a crook in his back. He might have been 95 or 96. He told me I had a trusting face and I seemed honest and fair.
I told him he was right, he could trust me. I clasped him on the back as men do sometimes when they're being serious with one another and I smiled at him.
His eyes shone out from underneath an overhanging brim of a brow. The lines in his face seemed like one of those topographic maps of mountains, the wrinkles were infinite. He stank of Old Spice and the Salvation Army.
He was a good man, and I had a trusting face. He then clasped my back as well and also patted it for good measure. I had made a new friend.
I did most of the talking in this new relationship and the old man listened and gave a 'humph' or an 'uh-huh' in response to most everything.
As we both reached the end of our second or fourth whiskeys, I could sense he was growing tired.
I wasn't entirely sure if it was my conversation or his old age, but I decided to make my conversation more entertaining anyway. I began talking about women, and naked ones at that. He perked up a little for a moment, but the crook in his back grew more crooked, and his head sagged low and rested on the bar. This old crackerjack had had enough.
I told him I'd get the tab. He looked at me and tears came to his eyes.
'Don't cry, withered angel' I said.
And he didn't. We shook hands like men do, firm and steady. He oozed out of his stool and scuttled out of the bar.
I sat back down. I was content, and found myself on the verge of tears. I had made a nice new friend today.
The tab was waiting for me and I reached for my wallet.
It wasn't there. I checked both front pockets. Not there, either.
The old man took it.
'Withered angel, my ass,' I yelled as I sprang from my seat and burst out of the bar.
I got outside just in time to see the old man put the wallet into his mouth like a debit card into an ATM. He then reached up to the top of his head and dug his hands into his skin. The sound was excruciatingly literal. It could only have been made by a guy putting his wrinkled hands into the top of his head. Or some baby food.
He then pulled the yellowing flesh off of himself like a banana.
The wrinkled skin fell to the ground in a lump and there before me stood none other than Harry Potter himself, Daniel 'Fuckin' Radcliffe.
He mouthed the words 'Thanks, Snookums' to me and he--
It was at that point that I bolted awake from my nightmare in a gelatinous layer of sweat and embarrassment. What the hell was that all about.
I now realize that dream to be a metaphor for my continued financial support of the Harry Potter movie franchise. I've given far too much to those pompous, spoiled and talentless English fops, and I don't intend to do it again. Let Harry die for all I care. That little punk took my allowance.
And he can't do magic for shit. Everyone zaps his ass constantly with their lightning bolt wand flicks.
If he's the chosen one, then I'm glad I'm not.
(BTW-I didn't NEED to write this blog, but I sure did WANT to.)