The stars are aligning to make this happen littlek...I don't think we should fight it.
Meet me at the train station saturday?
Hahaha, bad timing! <we sort of cross-posted there>
Hey! Hello! Hello? <sigh>
Oh, crap! I didn't see that! That is funny!!
Story of my life - Bad-timing-girl.
Man, I was tired last night!
Well, I bought my ticket to Boston last night. I'll check back here one more time today before I leave just to make sure you'll be there to meet me. Either way though, I'm on train #88, arriving at South Station in Boston at 8:05 PM tonight. I'll see you then, littlek.
I've never done something so impulsive and crazy like this. It is very scary and exciting!
Dangit kicky, I can't tell if you're serious. Either you really did your homework, or you're serious.
I guess I should clean the house just in case.
If you go to the train station right now, you can probably catch the fond farewell.
Kicky's Crazy Boston Adventure
PART I: The Odd and Amazing True Story of Bertrand P. Milquetoast
Upon arrival in Boston, I was very excited and anxious to meet my beloved littlek. When I got off the train, I didn't see her anywhere, so I began to wander the station looking for her. After a while, the nagging thought that I may have made a horrible mistake began to pop into my head. I pulled out a grape Blow-Pop, frantically ripped off the wrapper, and started licking anxiously as my eyes scanned the big train station for any sign of littlek.
After about an hour, I realized she wasn't there. As the pain of this realization sunk in, I dejectedly dragged myself to a nearby pub, and ordered a shot of turpentine in a dirty glass.
By 11:00 I was shitfaced, and off on a bellicose rant to anyone within earshot. I was jumping around, shouting about my broken heart in an obscenity-laden tirade, when I felt my ass bump into someone behind me. I turned and saw a nerdy-looking man in a wrinkled plaid shirt and thick black-framed glasses go down face-first into his bowl of clam chowder.
I apologized profusely, and helped him wipe the chowder from his face and shirt. After he was fairly presentable again, we got to talking. I soon learned that Bertrand P. Milquetoast was an MIT grad student, and a genius with numbers. I told him my story, and when I was done, his eyes sparkled brightly as he said mysteriously, "Do you see that gentleman over there throwing peanuts into the air and catching them in his mouth like a seal?"
I nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
He went on in his awkwardly pedantic way, explaining, "Well, while it is true that the flight of those peanuts is completely random once they leave that gentleman's hand," he began, "it is also true that with the sciences of mathematics and physics, we can calculate to a high degree of probability the possible outcomes and trajectories, and can in fact, predict, with an almost infallible degree of accuracy, whether that peanut will end up in the gentleman's mouth or on the floor, and furthermore--"
"Bertrand," I broke in excitedly, "are you telling me that you can figure out where littlek is right now, just by using a protractor, a pen and some paper?!!"
He grabbed a peanut of his own, and tossed it in the air, saying, "Yes, Kicky, that is precisely what I'm saying." Unfortunately he was very uncoordinated. The peanut landed two tables over, and Bertrand landed clumsily on the floor trying to catch it in his mouth...but his point was made.
We spent the next two hours going over everything I knew about littlek. I told Bertrand about her strange belief that she had a bunch of guardian angels watching over her at all times and that these guardian angels sometimes took physical form and were, in fact, flying monkeys...I told him about the lesbian experimentation period she had gone through when she was a stripper in New Mexico...I told him all this, and more. He just kept nodding, drawing circles with his protractor, and doing calculations. Finally at around closing time, he looked up from his calculations, and handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. "Go to her. Go and find your one true love, Kickycan."
I noticed a tear in his eye as I took the piece of paper from him. I patted him on the shoulder as I grabbed my gym bag, and said, "Bertrand P. Milquetoast, I will never forget you for this. Keep on protracting, man...keep on protracting." and with that, I was off to find my love.
"Part II: The Long-Awaited Meeting of Kicky and Littlek" will follow shortly...
Sounds like you had a little too much to drink. Did Bertrand P. Milquetoast look anything like Gus?
<anxiously waiting for part II>
What is it about littlek that causes grown men to travel from distant points of the world just for a fleeting glimpse?
The last time I was in Boston, I saw littlek walking down the sidewalk. She spun around, threw her hat in the air (much to the bemusement of a little old lady in the crowd) and then vanished into the Boston night.
That glimpse was all I needed. I am happy now.
