Has it really been that long since we've chatted, children? Oh well... life is busy as shit here in La-La Land, as I make a mad scramble to come up with rent money on time, and try to find people who would like to purchase my screenplays (Only $29.95, autographed, and it comes with a collection of Golden Girls dinner settings, I like the Bea Arthur gravy boat myself).

Anyway, as I like to do time to time (read: Whenever I don't have something very clever to spend an entire entry on), I'm going to be posting a short story of mine. It's a little tale that goes out to all of the hopeless romantics out there.

It's entitled, "A Homeless Guy Finds Love in Hollywood" and I hope you enjoy it.

He wandered onto Santa Monica Blvd. in a semi-stupor, pulling his six layers of clothes against himself tightly, trying to fight off the brisk, California-morning cold.

He had his itinerary planned out completely. It was Thursday, and Thursdays meant he would roam around looking for empty cans and bottles until mid-afternoon, at which point he would go to the park and expose himself to the joggers. After that, depending on whether or not he was arrested, he would turn in his cans and bottles for cash behind the Arco Station on Vine, and use the money to by himself a light dinner. He didn't drink much these days, not since his ulcer had started to flare up again. After that, he would beg for loose change at the corner of Sunset and Ivar, where the trendy people hung around outside of a large music store. He needed to build up this collection of money, because Fridays never left him much opportunity to go scouring for recyclables. Fridays were busy for him, seeing how he would spend most of the day trying to get into various department stores so he could molest the mannequins, and scaring the teenagers as they left Hollywood High School.

He made his way to La Brea and headed north, mumbling to himself the entire time. He wasn't aware of what he was saying. Mostly what came out was a mix of stream of consciousness and nonsense. He was very aware of what he was doing, and could have probably stopped it at any time. But the fact of the matter was, he just didn't care anymore. It didn't matter what people thought of him. He had moved beyond that sort of vain self-importance and had graduated to a higher plane of existence.

This all ran through his mind in a flash, and with a small grunt, he was mumbling his way back down the street.

The moments of lucidity came less and less as time progressed. Occasionally he would catch himself doing something so bugshit crazy that he would stop, take a step back, and examine his actions closely. He'd think, What the hell are you doing, Harris? Is this really what your life has become? These thoughts were quickly quelled by whatever impulse drove him these days. He would go back to whatever insane act he was in the middle of, any feelings of doubt pushed down to the back of his mind.

He made a right and started to head down Hollywood Blvd. The string of clubs there guaranteed that the dumpsters out back would be filled with plenty of bottles just waiting to be claimed. He always got an early start. Most of his competition, the other homeless people who loitered this part of town, were alcoholics which meant most of them slept half of the day away, opting to spend their nights begging for change when people just wanted to get home. Harris was good about catching the mid-day crowd, when people were usually just trying to avoid work or any responsibility altogether.

Harris moved along with his shuffling gait, heading towards the McDonalds on the corner of Hollywood and Highland. He figured he'd see if the guy he knew was working. If he was, then Harris could probably score a hash brown or one of those greasy breakfast sandwiches they sold.

Before he could reach it, a young woman walked up the door and started to open it. She paused and glanced over at Harris, a puzzled look on her face. The rational part of Harris' mind told him to just look away. To do anything troublesome in front of here could put his future Egg McMuffin intake at serious risk.

"Hello," the woman said quietly. Harris slowly looked down at her. She was beautiful, no more than twenty-five years old, with long, black hair. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses rested on her face, but instead of looking awkward and geeky, they seemed to compliment her features.

The irrational part of Harris' mind suddenly kicked in, the part that made him sunbathe nude in the middle of crowded shopping malls. He felt his arms start to reach out for her. He panicked and went into self-defense mode, trying to find some way to suppress the urge to grab her. He shut his eyes tightly and began to mumble to himself. If the girl had noticed any of this, she gave no sign.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Because I was going to get some breakfast, and I could use the company."

Harris looked away again, growing uncomfortable. He suddenly wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. It wasn't that he didn't like her (Although he found it odd that she would invite somebody who looked and acted like him to breakfast so easily). The fact that he liked her caused this unease. He wanted to get away before he did something to make a bad impression on this girl. And something like that wasn't a possibility, it was inevitable.

And then something wholly unexpected happened:

"I have to go," Harris said, in a surprisingly calm voice. "If I don't go now, I'm going to end up doing something that's going to make me look like a fool to you. And as stupid as it is for a guy like me worrying about the types of impressions he makes on people, I just have this gut feeling telling me that you're the one person on this planet I don't want to alienate."

Harris blinked. Had he just said that?

The girl smiled at him.

"I get it," she said. "Don't worry. If you ever feel like you can keep… whatever it is you're worried about under control… I come here for breakfast every Thursday morning. The pancakes here are horrible, but for some odd reason I keep coming back for them. I guess I must've liked them as a kid and refuse to let them go."

"Trust me," Harris said, suddenly feeling more alert and alive than he had in a long time. "I know all about refusing to let things go." He motioned to his dirty, tattered clothing as evidence of this. The girl laughed. She started to walk into the restaurant again, but paused and ducked back out.

"I'm Shannon, by the way."

Harris started to tell her his name, but all that came out was a low mumbling. He closed his eyes and walked away from her as quickly as possible, his fists clenched tightly.

He made it around the corner, and let it all out. Strands of profanity, nonsensical ranting, everything that the normal human mind filters out on a daily basis. All of these came pouring out of his mouth in rapid procession. When he was done, a loose strand of saliva was hanging off of his chin.

He slid down against the wall and buried his grimy face into his equally grimy hands. And Harris did something he hadn't done in a very long time. He cried. It started off as a low sob, which slowly became a series of strangled whimpers. Tears ran down his face, making spots that were once a dark hue bright again, as if somebody had taken of a picture of him with smeared mascara and polarized it. Harris wiped the tears away and sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity.

His brain seemed to be caught in serious conflict with itself. Part of him wanted to just let go and drift slowly into full-blown insanity, while the other part of him wanted nothing more than to just be normal again.

He thought of his wife and his two little girls, all three from a life he seemed to have walked away from with no problem whatsoever. He thought of his friends, his house, his job, his life… His life before all of this. What was so horrible about it that made him run from it? What had caused him to snap and give it all up? The most frightening thought was did these things really exist? Had he ever had such a perfect life, or was it just another cruel trick his mind was playing on itself? Was it always like this?

"Get a job ya' fucking bum!" came out a harsh voice.

Harris looked over to see where it came from, but before he got a good view of the person, a foot came smashing into his face. The impact sent him sprawling onto his stomach. He instinctively covered his head with his arms. The assailant started to kick him repeatedly in the side and stomach. Harris shut his eyes tightly, each blow causing a shockwave of pain throughout his entire body.

"Dude, cut it out!" a second voice said. "Let's get out of here!"

Something wet and warm hit the back of Harris' hand. It was spit. Harris waited, until he was certain that the attack was over. He got up slowly and sat against the wall again. He wiped the spit off onto his pant leg and then checked his face. The foot had caught him in the check, causing a large gash. None of his teeth were missing, but there was quite a bit of blood. He touched the side of his stomach, wincing slightly. His ribs felt like they were on fire, but none of them seemed broken. He reached inside of his coat pocket and fished out the cleanest tissue he could find. He wiped the blood off of his face and tossed it aside.

Harris got up slowly and began to walk down the street. He wasn't aware of what street it was, or what direction he was heading. For now, his bottles and cans, the joggers in the park, the person who had just beaten him, they were all forgotten. He was walking down the road and taking everything in. He understood it all, registered everything saw. He was overcome with such a wonderful clarity of life, and he never wanted it to end. Every footstep, every breath, he understood it's purpose, he knew why he was doing it. He didn't mumble, he didn't make funny faces; no strange urges came over him. He just walked and existed, nothing more, nothing less. It was the most beautiful thing he had felt in his entire life.

He didn't know how long this would last, but he hoped that it would never end.

After all, he had a date with a pretty young girl next Thursday to remember.