Lunch with the ex today was interesting to say the least. I'll comment more after I finish this scotch and help my dad pound on something with a hammer.

I have arrived safely in Colorado. About 10 minutes before we were scheduled to land, the captain came over the general speaker and told us it had started to snow in Colorado Springs, and that we could all expect a white christmas. Coming from Maryland, which until now has been more like Florida than it should be, this was possibly the best news I'd heard all day. I wish you all the happiest of holidays, and will write again to tell you all about my sordid escapades over new years. Until then, may the warmth of the season fill you with abounding joy, or at least some good gifts. ;)

The clock on the wall ticked with an inaudible laugh as I waited for his turn in the hot seat. The cold linoleum floor squeaked under my heavy leather boots as I shifted in my seat. The hallway couldn't have been more than 40 degrees, and my body heat poured through the collar opening in my armor like steam from a shower. I wasn't allowed time to change before the debriefing, and the rapidly cooling metallic shell was becoming clammy and uncomfortable. God I hate medieval gigs.

"Agent Calkins, they're ready for you now." the uniformed receptionist said as she ushered a wookie and cyborg hacker out the door.

"Halloween already, Ken?" I said to the furry beast as it passed me.

"Why don't you blow me, Calkins. Why the fuck do I always get the god damn monkey suit...." he grumbled, tugging at the hair on his head as he walked past me.

"Calkins! Get in here!" the voice bellowed to me from inside the office. Walking through the door, I saw the deputy director of operations and two other execs sitting around a desk. A fourth chair had been set in the middle of the room in stereotypical interrogation style. Deputy Director Warrick had a penchant for the dramatic, and it always amused me to see what he came up with next. "Sit down and shut up, agent."

"Can I have a Pepsi or something?" I asked, pointing over my shoulder to the mini-bar in the corner of the office.

"Cut the shit, Calkins. Your lucky you still have a job. Why don't you start by telling us what the fuck is going on with the Brokensoul operation?" he barked at me, restlessly fidgeting in his leather chair. He was a short, balding man, whose left eye twitched as a result of too many dungeon ops against hordes of little nasties. His language, however foul, seemed to endear him to the higher ups, who saw it as the mark of a "no nonsense go getter" (or some other silly managerial term). Seeing that this wasn't going to be a pleasant chat, I squared my shoulders and prepared for a grilling.

"Well, sir, we've had a few setbacks. But I assure you were on target."

"Setbacks? Agent Smyth nearly died. Sabourin has been assigned tank twice now? This sounds like more than a few setbacks, mister!"

"I realize what it looks like, sir, but the situation is more complicated than that." I replied, attempting as best I could to remain composed.

"Really," he said, leaning back in his chair, "well, why don't you give us a play by play."

"I had lead as we moved up the road to the farmhouse."

"And you saw the bodies on the ground." This time, the question was from one of the other two people in the room, a tall women reading from a case file.

"Yes, ma'am. That's when we saw the bodies. We decided it would be beneficial to check the bodies for cause of death before we proceeded with policing the dead and continuing the patrol." I replied.

"So you didn't check the perimeter first?" Warrick asked.

"No sir. Agent Scott reported no signs of evil presence, and the decision was made."

"The decision was made. Was that before or after you realized you were all huddled together in a mine field full of potential undead?!" Warrick shouted, physically lifting himself out of the chair with every word.

"Before. We would have had little success anyway, sir." I responded, attempting to rationalize the poor choice we had made.

"Tell me something, Agent Calkins- where did the attack come from?" His expression was nearly chipper when he asked this, and I could see the tops of his knuckles beginning to whiten.

"The woods, about 25 yards to the west of us." I replied, looking down at the floor.

"Hmm, so that would be the fucking perimeter wouldn't it?" His rage was now reaching full tilt, and the veins on his forehead were pulsating ever more rapidly. I nodded in agreement, not wishing to encourage another lashing.

"Agent Calkins" from the third member of the tribunal, an older Asian man, " what was your intention when you requested the amulet from Agent Smyth?"

"Smyth was down and needing medical attention. I suspected the amulet was glowing to show its location and present a target to the hostiles. It was my intention to use the amulet to draw fire away from Agents Smyth and Sabourin."

Making a notation in his file, he replied to me without looking up. "What is your operational assignment for this mission, agent?"

"My OA for Brokensoul is Alpha three five. Natural fighter." I knew where this was going, and began to formulate my response.

"Why then, Agent Calkins, did you not attack? Couldn't you just as easily have drawn fire through an offensive posture? Agent Scott was perfectly capable of caring for Smyth, your primary responsibility should have been a counter offensive to alleviate stress on the forward element."

"At the time, sir, I felt a forward assault would have been counterproductive."

"So you opted for heroics instead of functionality!" Warrick interrupted "Misplaced and completely ineffective heroics at that! You need to get your shit together, son. You people are dangerously close to bickering your way out of a job. You all were assigned to this mission because of your excellent teamwork on the Majestic operation. So far, I have yet to see anything more than freshman posturing and gross negligence. Roll playing is one thing, Calkins... forgetting your training is a whole other demon. I'm not even going to bring up your trying to smash the amulet with your hand, I honestly don't have the self control to delve into that one. Suffice it to say, you're treading on thin ice. I'm placing you on temporary leave for two weeks. When you come back in January, I expect to see the goon back in full form. Am I understood?"

"Yes sir."

I've thus far held back with my rants that may concern the tragedy of September 11th. Today I need to vent a little.

This has nothing to do with any waste of carbon terrorist, or bullet worthy rat fuck traitor, or saber rattling, torch bearing mob style media shithead. This has to do with American citizens that attempt to financially capitalize on national tragedy. Their like that guy who breaks his foot horse-assing at your memorial day party, and tries to stretch the guilt induced special treatment well into the new year. I hate that fucking guy. This morning, like many mornings since september, I received a call from a parent asking me to make an exception to one of my rules in light of the "recent tragedy". Today, mom wanted her baby to have a car on campus. Fine with me. I understand that parents want to see their kids more often. They should want to see them more often regardless of national tragedy, but far be it from me to argue with the way this desired result is achieved. Little Susie is a resident student, and is eligible for a resident permit. But mom wants me to sell her a commuter permit. Resident permits are $391 a semester. Commuter permits are $260 a semester.

$131 savings.

For $131 mom has invoked the "national tragedy" clause. Not for any legitimate reason. For 131 fucking dollars she dishonored every innocent civilian that died that day. Every rescue worker that died that day. Every soldier, sailor, airman, marine, and rebel that is fighting now. Every family that mourns or waits for someone.

"It's just so expensive, after having to fly her home every weekend, to pay that. I wouldnt want to pull her out of school." she says.

Tell you what: I'll pay the difference. But when you watch the news footage of our CIA operatives and Special Operations people returning home draped in flags, I hope its worth every penny of your $131. You make me sick.

Its a cold, gray, rainy morning, and I couldnt ask for more. Well, maybe another sleeve of pop tarts, but I'm not complaining. Today is interview day, and once again I have been selected to help choose the next generation of goons. They arent as hard core as my hand selected crew of slack-jawed momo's; these people are sloppy and uneducated, their actions restricted by the badge on their chest. Fight fire with fire, I always say. If you're facing a godless posse of thieves, sexual deviants, and unabashed shitheads, who better to use than students? But these are not students. These are military drop outs looking for a steady check, mall security rambos with a taste for blood, and philosopher insomniacs who will change the science of shaping young minds one drunken stumbler at a time. In face of all this selection, I cant believe I find it so difficult to make a choice. But I will make it my mission (for the next couple hours, anyhow) to pick from the sludge the few sturdy souls that float above the rest.

This is so fucking boring.

Ok, so my laptop was being angry with me, and wouldnt save the files I needed properly. No story today. But I will get that posted here very soon.

Welcome to crunch time, my friends. For the students, its the end of the semester, and finals are beginning to take their toll on those bright youthful faces. For me, it means that I have to finish all the semesters backlogged paperwork before I go on vacation. This means that you will probably see very little by way of conversational posts here on Turnpike. However, I am planning to post a few chapters of a story I've written. I light of recent activities, I think you'll all enjoy the genre. The first section will be posted either later today or tomorrow (as soon as I can get them off of my laptop).

First Project Aquarius dies and Pisces with it, then "majestic" was eliminated from my site name, and now I have left the ever changing freeservers. This is promising to be quite a metamorphosis.

Peachy says that freeservers is being "selective" about what they allow to be posted. This is bothersome.

Round two, like the rounds that would follow, all had one thing in common: one of us was ready to try and make it work, and the other person wasn't. It's as simple as that. Even though we exchanged emotional knockdowns, we stayed friends, always anticipating the bell that signified our next encounter.

Fast forward to December 1998. Home from school for winter break, we decide to go out one evening to catch up. After a nice dinner, and a walk around the lake at the Broadmoor Hotel (a staple in my fool proof Colorado Springs date repertoire), she asked me "where to now?" Flipping through the CD's neatly organized in her car, I popped "Joshua Tree" in the player, closed my eyes, and said, "Surprise me." 30 minutes later, when the car stopped, the location alone spoke her intentions. This quasi relationship continued through new years, culminating in an embarrassing display of drunken sexual ice capades in the master bath at my parents house, while a cadre of my best friends, fearing they knew exactly what I was doing, began a room by room search.

An interesting side note- after we rejoined the party, she made her way down to my room to pass out, and I continued to drink, striking up a conversation with a scrumptious little blonde friend of my sister. She confided in me all the problems she and her current steady were having, and in proper big brother fashion, I provided my best advice through an ever thickening vodka induced haze. Finishing the conversation, I went down to my room to sleep. When the alarm woke me in the morning, I rolled over to see a mass of blonde hair. Uncle Boris Stolychnaya had done his best to eradicate my memory of the night before, leaving only two images, and they both involved women with blonde hair. The problem is, I couldn't for the life of me immediately recall which girl went with which image. I was nearly 95% sure that I hadn't done a very foolish thing with a 15 year old, but needed confirmation on that post haste. Gently grasping my bedmates shoulder, I rolled her over so I could see her face. It was then I realized that I had done a very foolish thing with 20 year old. And is if things could get any more uncomfortable, I had to shower before I met my other ex-girlfriend (also a blonde woman... I think this may be the problem) for lunch. Lets just say that my new years resolution was to stop being me. Later that day, we talked again. She was going to break things off with Rhett Butler back in Virginia, and when I offered to fill that void, we both knew that wasn't a good idea.

Later that month, I got a phone call from her, and through the crying, I determined that he was on his way to Washington to start a second civil war. This time, I wasn't going to be so timid. Luckily for both of us, he had pounded half a bottle of Jack Daniels and lost the nerve before he hit Richmond.

We didn't talk much after that. I would see her from time to time while I was home, we would talk, but nothing else happened. Then, during spring break of 2000, while my roommate and I were driving my car back from Colorado, I got a 3 am phone call from the front desk at the Drury Inn Stadium in Kansas City. Thinking it was a wake up call, I was surprised to hear her voice on the other end of the line. She and her sister were driving her new car back, and my mom had told them where we would be. We spent the next two days driving in a convoy across the country. In a run down Holiday Inn outside of Indianapolis, we talked until the sun came up. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, we decided that she was going to come up and stay with me while she interviewed for jobs in the area, though that never happened. When I saw her next, we met at an Irish bar in the Cleveland Park district. The group of friends that she had brought with her included the newest boyfriend, who I think is a very nice guy. We didn't talk much that night, only listened to the live band and caught ourselves staring at one another. In all that I've done, she was always a constant. Some times it was good, and sometimes it was bad, but it was always there. And then I started to notice how much we had both changed, and I saw in her eyes a longing for something that I wasn't ready to give her. It was then that I knew I shouldn't be there anymore. I excused myself, said goodbye to her friends, and kissed her on the cheek. I allowed my hand to linger on her face, as she did hers on my hand.

That's the last time I saw Jessica.

Talking with the gang yesterday in the chat room, its come to my attention that another of my relationships might make for interesting reading material. Gather round, kiddies- this one may take a while.

When I moved to Colorado in 1990, I met two women that would have a profound impact on my life. One of them I was immediately attracted to. Again, I use the word 'attracted' loosely; I was 12 in 1990. She would turn out to be the untested standard that my circle of friends unfairly judged other women against, though never dated. She could be the subject of another chapter, so I will suffice it to say that she now lives in California, makes an ungodly amount of money, and just concluded a relationship with my best friend.

This post is dedicated to the other girl. The other girl- how oddly appropriate to use this descriptor. We first dated the summer before our freshman year in high school. Looking back on pictures now, we laugh at how horribly awkward we were; her with her braces and spindly legs, me with my slicked back Han Solo style hair and huge glasses. I think it was this communal oddity that brought us together in the first place. Well, that, and the fact that she had a thing for Han Solo. We dated that entire summer, without so much as a peck on the cheek. But I was smitten in a serious way. For reasons I struggle to understand each time this story is told, my mother gave me a ring to give to this girl. She accepted, wore it for a while, and that warm august night when we broke up, she gave it back to me. Of all the girls I've given rings to (at last count it was three), she is the only one to give the ring back. This fact has always seperated her from the others in my mind.

So high school starts, and we both date other people. On my list were the color guard captain and the librarians daughter, who after breaking up with me, turned into the "If I cant have him, no one can" psychotic and the misguided "I must not be good enough, I should sleep with everyone" coccaine addict, respectively. She notched her belt with a series of older guys who promised her the world and then treated her like shit. Then came senior year, and a party at a friends house. This house, like so many other parts of this story, will be the subject of a later chapter in my quickly developing memoirs. Back to the story. Like some twisted adolescent smorgasbord, I was presented with a number of options for potential girlfriends that evening. Two simply involved an acknowledgement on my part. She was a different matter entirely. I chose her.

You see, she had a ring on her finger that I hadnt given to her. Where most people would be happy, she was miserable. We would spend hours on end talking about everything. I was sincerely trying to help her through a difficult time in her life with no intention of shoplifting the pootie. But in true literary style, all defenses and good intentions were shattered in a single moment, shivering on my back deck, the lights of the entire city spread out behind us. After that, there was no turning back. For 5 months we were inseperable. And then in January it ended badly. Very badly.

I cant recall the specifics of the event now, but I clearly remember the repurcussions. Others will say that while she didnt want to be married, she didnt really want to be with me either. I think she didnt know what she wanted, except that she needed freedom. But this understanding is in hindsight, and at the time I was crushed. Our friends believed her to be at fault and virtually excommunicated her, despite my opposition. She spent the remainder of her senior year alone, dating a string of people that have since been added to my "Need to be Gooned" list. Of all the things that I've done, her lonliness that semester is the one I regret most, and I didnt want it to happen. But I was so lost in my own emotional pain that I didnt do what I could have to stop it.

Enough of the lamentations. Graduation rolls around that year, and it finds her back together with the former fiance, only this time they've decided to wait until she was ready. You all have read mention of my girlfriend at the time, and one day I may write about the scars she left on my psyche. Having regained my footing, my overprotective friends had eased off a little and we all met for an early breakfast before the ceremony at a friends house near the Air Force Academy. I had had a sneaking suspicion that he would show up with her, but had shrugged it off in favor of a day of celebration. This was my first mistake. When they showed up, it was quite obvious that he meant to discuss the nature of my relationship with his girlfriend and would be wife. I tried to change the subject, but basic chit chat about how life at Annapolis was treating him was only making him more angry. I dont recall the exact words that set off his violent explosion, but whatever they were, they were severe enough to result in his chasing me around the yard with a large metal tool (a monkey wrench or a tire iron, if I recall). When he finally caught me, he threw me up against the wall and intended to bludgeon me like a landed marlin. This, of course, was in my pre-goon days when I was made weak by thoughts of romance and consistant supplier of sex. If it hadnt been for her pulling him off, I do think that I would have been the kid that graduated from a hospital bed. Later she would tell me that if anyone was going to bash in my head with a blunt object, it was going to be her.

Summer came and went. I went off to school in DC, and she went off to Virginia Tech. We've lived no more than 5 hours away from eachother for the past 6 years, and I've seen her twice outside of Colorado. In March of my freshman year in college, my heart was once again scattered to the winds by a blonde (this one kept the ring I gave her), and I began a two year downward spiral. I'm sure I exaggerate this event, but what is absolutely true is that my entire life changed as a result. When I came home that summer, I was a shell of the person I used to be. But she knew who I was. And her ability to comfort me spurred on the second round of our ten year battle royale.

More to come after I get some work done.

I spent the last half and hour or so reading the inner thoughts of a best friend's mind. As usual, this influx of creativity has caused my bubbling pot of artistic energies to boil more feverishly. So I sit here, desperately searching my soul for the specific "button" that, once pressed, will ease my mind. Writing, after all, is like accupuncture for the spirit.

My catharsis for today is yet unknown to me.

Having had two cups of coffee and a number of phone calls from idiots, I am now prepared to issue my controlled rant of the morning.

Topic: Law School Students

I hate them. This may sound severe, or even too generalized, but I repeat: I hate them. If you will permit me a star wars reference, law school, as far as I can tell, is much like Luke's journey from farm boy to Jedi knight. By the the end of the second year, its pretty easy to discern a law students force alignment. May it please the court, I would like to admit the following example into evidence. The university's College of Law is about 3/4 of a mile down the road from the main campus. Given their location in a residential zone, the parking is limited to the garage under the building. However, law students who find it hard to put gas into Daddy's BMW, buy the new Nellie CD and a Prada bad, AND pay the 300 some odd dollars a year for a permit opt to park in the surrounding neighborhood. This exodus from my zone of control has caused the neighborhood council (mostly WASP automatons and Berkeley style communist sympathizers) to bark out "foul!" So my equivalent down at the law school, who unlike me is a pasty old throwback incapable of cogent thought, went into an immediate huddle with the higher-ups and settled on a very rash course of action. Tickets would be issued to vehicles suspected to be law school students that were parked on the surrounding streets. There are many problems with this plan, but the two most important are:

1. We have no jurisdiction to write tickets outside of university property. Like Indy tried to tell that sweet Austrian piece of ass, you cant take the grail past the symbol.
2. Even if we could, there is little or no way of determining which vehicles belong to students. Save the occasional bumper sticker, or books on the seat, or even the real geniuses that leave their legal parking permit hanging up. This makes enforcement of this regulation a little difficult.

But the point of this rant is not the foolishness of the university policy. Rather, its the seedy manner with which law students attempt to subvert the law. An ancient wisdom comes to mind readily, "don't bite the hand that feeds you." These fucking people have been told that it is illegal for them to park in the neighborhood, and that if they continue to do so, they will be subjected to tickets from the Metro cops. Yet still, I get at least one call a day in which an aspiring jurist ends up brainstorming his plan to break the law, and then asking if that would be sufficient for him to avoid my swift form of justice. Usually, I am too shocked to respond.
And this is not a random event. How can these slimy little shit sandwiches look at themselves in the mirror knowing how empty the meaningless little assface is that stares back at them?

I don't know- call me a purist- but you must choose to either to follow the law because its the fucking law, or at least be an intelligent enough criminal to make my day interesting.

Women- how you do so vex me.

I went out this weekend for the Great Guinness Toast. I enjoy this event, and think that there should be more like it. For those of you who haven't had this experience, its like New Years without the formal wear. But in the midst of this revelry, somewhere between the third and forth pint, I found myself flirting (quite effectively, I seem to recall) with a girl that had previously given me the cold shoulder. Don't worry, this all sounds odd to me as well.

Very brief summary of the relationship (if you can call it that) between myself and this young woman: went out once, made plans to go out a second time, she seems very excited to do so, calls the day of the proposed event to cancel, saying "I don't think we can go out anymore." I let it go, then see her again shortly before or after the summer (I don't recall now) and as I'm leaving she asks "why didn't you call me back?" Since that time, my antiquated radar has been picking up what I can only surmise as hints that she may be interested again.

So why is this a confusing issue, you ask?
1. The girl cant weigh more than 105 lbs soaking wet, and she had been tossing back vodka/coconut rum combinations all evening long. Granted, she can hold her own, but the friendly factor could have been in play.

*sidenote* jesus- this is making me sound like such a loser... but I'll continue for the sake of feedback *end sidenote*

2. Sources confirm that she has been known to change her mind at the last minute. They described it as "toy with a man's mind because she fears normalcy." I don't agree with this observation, but am willing to listen.

So, the puzzle I have before me is to first confirm intent and then determine wether or not action will result in casualties. Thoughts?

I can handle the fascination with young ladies- but I dont think I'd stab someone in the face with scissors.

Which Evil Criminal are You?

Does this surprise anybody?

Take the Affliction Test Today!