It's a mystery. The Bermuda Triangle is nothing compared to this. Easter Island? Who cares about some big rocks that were transported enormous distances thousands of years ago? This is real. This is scary. I don't understand why Art Bell hasn't discussed this on his show. Unless THEY got to him.

Hershey Bars. With or without almonds. Have you ever noticed how, no matter which store you go to (and I've experimented with this), almost all of them are broken? How can this be? Even the ones on the very bottom!

What can the CIA possibly be up to? Unless it's not the CIA. Maybe Bush(Sr., not Dubya) is in cahoots with aliens again. Makes perfect sense to me.

I struggle to see the screen, through the wetness exiting my eyes. Not a constant thing, only when a certain flash of memory occurs, like you singing your goofy song, or doing your monkey dance. You’re leaving. It’s a done deal. You won’t be back, and I feel like I’m dying.

I’m not delusional. I know we’ve had many more bad times than good. At times I wanted to:

• Punch you in the mouth
• Run away from you, out of sheer terror
• Call the cops and have you deported
• Take out a restraining order against you

And then there were times I just wanted to hold you. To see your startled expression when I scared the crap out of you while you were coming out of the bathroom. To feel your head against my shoulder. Soon, I’ll not get to hear you butcher the English language, and it’s tearing me up inside.

I know that eventually we’ll get used to our new lives, and probably even forget a lot, if not most of the past couple years. As I write these words, however, that time seems far distant, as my head feels like it may explode from the rush of memories. I hope this is easier for you.

Logically, we both know this is not only what’s best, but what eventually had to happen. Little comfort, I know, and logic be damned.

I’ll miss the way you prepare rice and fish, and the way you pronounce “Melba Toast.” The way you twist and scream with laughter when I bite your feet. Even during the bad times, I’m sure you knew I loved you, even though I wouldn’t say it.

Au revoir, ma petit tomate.

A word about customer service . . . I know what it's like to feel degraded on the job. I've worked many convenient stores where scum who worked about as often as they changed underwear treated me like I was somehow beneath them. Still, I was somewhat respectful to them until they pushed my button. Then, God help them. But that's another story.

Rudeness is a sign of poor breeding. It doesn't matter how bad your day has been, or how shitty the last customer was, everybody who walks into a retail establishment initially deserves a "Hi, how are you?" Everybody.

That being said, I never frequent Murfreesboro convenient stores these days. Until recently, I still patronized a store close to Taco Bell, one in which I used to work. One particular evening, about 8:30 on a Friday night, the store was closed for stocking. The clerk was outside, and I thought she'd surely sell me a coke. Not so. When she saw me drive up, she literally ran inside the store and locked the door. All I wanted was a goddamned coke.

Unfortunately, this is more the rule, not the exception. Clerks here seldom make eye contact, offer a greeting of any kind, and seem to do their best to pretend you're not there. When I purchase gasoline, I always pay at the pump.

If more people ceased patronizing these cretin-infested shitholes, maybe the management would do something. Most people, however, don't care or even notice the lack of manners. Who cares if the guy's an asshole, as long as I get my beer and cigarettes?

When I leave Taco Bell, I now drive all the way across town to Walgreens. Yes, the drive sucks, but the staff is friendly, the store is clean, and there's always a manager on duty to take care of things.

Plus, they sell these huge chocolate bars for only 99 cents!

I had a dream about you last night. It was a good dream.

You came to me as I walked on the path in the woods, behind the church. Where we used to go to be alone. Your hair was the same curly, dark blonde, but your face showed signs of wear and tear. Your plump lips and sincere smile remained. The dress you wore resembled the ones you wore to church. It felt good to be with you.

We spoke about how I got stranded at your house for three days because of the snow. About how your dad pretended not to like me. About how jealous the preacher’s daughter was, because I was with you, not her.

“Remember when I dated that guy, Mark, and he would drive me to church in his new Trans Am?” You asked.

“Yup.”

“I never really cared for him; not like I did you.”

We walked further, in silence.

“And remember that other guy I used to make out with in the parking lot while you were walking in the church?”

“Uh huh.”

“I never really liked him either; not as much as you.”

More silence.

A tear came to your eye, and then, “You know, Amod, I’ve never really loved anybody but you. It’s always been you. I still love you today.” You held your arms open, welcoming me for an embrace.

At this point, I was overcome with emotion. The sound of your voice, the smell of your perfume, and the expression on your face take me back more than a few years. I decide now to do what I wish I’d done then . . .

I’m not sure if my fist or your fall down the rocky slope did the most damage. I’m relatively sure, however, that your missing teeth was the work of my second and third knuckles. You gaze up the hill, dumfounded.

“Love hurts. Go fuck yourself.” It was a very good dream.