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Bindo let me interview him for my blog. You know you will giggle as I did. (I suppose I should admit I’m not sure if the pronounciation is biiiiindo or beeendo.)

Bindo’s note to you, dear reader. Before I answered any of Medicated Lady’s questions, I felt it necessary to put on Beck’s “Sea Changes” undoubtedly, the most depressing record ever made. Hmm, where are my smokes? Ah, here they are! OK, everything is in place, Ashtray? Check!…Lighter?..Check!.. Coffee? Check! And now……

1. Can you describe your Dark Place? 

Very dark, like a black hole, but with a great paint job and tasteful window treatments.

2. Where does your writing inspiration come from? 

It comes from years of being on the road, smoking, drinking coffee, drugs and booze, hundred’s of dead end jobs and a ridiculous amount of meaningless sex.

3. How did Bindo, the writer, become Bindo, the writer?

After being fired or quitting hundreds of dead end jobs (for good and not so good reasons), it occurred to me that I wasn’t good at anything except writing about not being good at anything.

4. In a no-holds barred, caged fight, who would you want as your “wrasslin” ally: Bryan or me? Also, who would you be up against?  

That’s tough, because you are both extremely cute and I am shallow on many levels. But I think considering everything, I would have you on my team because I could sit back, light a smoke and watch your luminous hair flying as you leap through the air to put the kabash on our opponents…

Segue way?

That would have to be Bryan and The Dalai Lama. First, well ya know, I get to wrestle with Bryan but mostly, I just like to win.

5. I’m at my happiest when I’m terribly depressed. I am allergic to fire ant venom. Is there any circumstance in which you’d ever want to be eaten by a grizzly bear?

Funny you should ask. I was out hunting bear, back in my Hemmingway days. I had a big grizzly in my sight, pulled the trigger and fired. The bear dropped to the ground. I ran over and the bear was no where. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned and saw the grizzly. He said, “you have two choices: One, I maul and eat you or Two, you let me have my way with you.”

At the time I was feeling very prolific and didn’t want to die at the moment, which is always a strange feeling, so I opted for backdoor number two. Well, I was depressed over my rape and was going home. When I saw the grizzly again, I sighted him up and pulled the trigger. He dropped like a bad habit. I ran over to celebrate my victory over the horny bear but he was no where to be found. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there he was with a grizzly smile. He looked at me and said, “You’re not here for hunting are you?”

Be sure to check out bindo’s site:http://bindo.wordpress.com/

Bryan has also reviewed one of bindo’s books on his blog: http://poeticgrin.com/2009/07/03/smoke-breaks-by-bindo/

He asks

wanna cuddle

Of course I do. Of course. The only problem is the STDs floating around, the serial killers lurking about, my (in)sanity, and the facts being what they are. Fact: I have never heard the sound of his voice. Fact: I asked if he had a good weekend and his reply was “not bad.” Fact: I told him I couldn’t cuddle because I was a good girl. Fact: I think I lied.

 

No can do

I said

Good girl here

I am not a whore. I was a virgin until I was 29, and I do not kid. I just never wanted to make love or fuck. But then the switch was flipped. And now it’s Two. One that didn’t matter. One that shouldn’t have mattered but did.  He could’ve been Three.

 

He laughed it off

haha…I tried

Of course he did. Why shouldn’t he? I was mainly amused, but now I’m not. I think it’s because I lied. I can’t cuddle because I’m cold. I can’t cuddle because I’m a sad girl. I can’t cuddle because he doesn’t really want to cuddle. I can’t cuddle because cuddle is code for fuck and I’m tired of being fucked.

  • Sex.
  • Also, mentioning “sex” in a blog brings you more traffic, or so Bryan says. Put as many sexual tags as you can think of on your blog post. Think hard.
  • Try to find another writing utensil.
  • Tell yourself that this other writing utensil is perfectly sufficient.
  • Upon immediate dismissal of the above point, keep calm.
  • For Christ’s sake, shake out your luminous hair.
  • Distract yourself by considering your freckles.
  • Consider the cost of Claritin, which you had to buy because you needed it, but you would have preferred that the Family Dollar had generic in stock.
  • Email Jade. Email Bryan. Email Melissa.
  • Write random bullet points and hope no one notices the randomness.
  • Think morbid thoughts. Such as all the ways horrible things can befall people: aortic tears in plane crashes, torture, being shot repeatedly in Afghanistan, having your rehab dog shot to death upon returning to Texas, forest fires that incinerate entire crews of smokejumpers in Montana (?) gulches, plane crashes that result in the consumption of rugby players, cutting your own hand off, freezing to death on Mt. Everest, starving in the Alaskan wilderness, dating, ending up in a freezer, being in Iraq, being in Somalia, being infected by the swine flu, having multiple myeloma with a 10% chance of living through the treatment much less the illness, and not having your favorite writing utensil or an interesting blog topic.

Would I go back?

Of course, I would

to a time of physical discovery

and comfort.

I want that again

and wanting is a sweet ache.

I want to do what he won’t,

a separate pain

that prevents me from moving

through viscous dreams to reality.

 

And anyway.

If it were true,

if it were to become real,

my world would become destructive

and months after the aftermath,

I’d be rendered raw and wanting again.

SOB with me

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