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closer... closer i got to the girl on the subway. the courage was welling within me, or maybe i was just happy to see her, who knows. but then a blinding flash of light. confusion. everything around me faded to black, i mean, African-American. quiet.

i awoke in a shady motel, the kind that would only exist in a movie inspired by a graphic novel about sensational yet shadowy goings-on in a den of urban decay. is-is this-this real-real?-? screeeeeeeeeeee!!!! ahhhh! feedback temporarily disabled me as my inner monologue resonated with the first person narration of the graphic novel i was apparently stuck in.

i adjusted to my surroundings. the frosty window's moonbeams fell across a ruffled bed in the corner of the room revealing a choppy satin ocean frozen in time. it wouldn't be frozen in temperature, because, like, global warming and shit. subtle reflections -barely perceptible slivers of light skimming off the glossy sheets- made out the shape of a woman's body. i hadn't much time. was she dead or asleep? i quickly checked the bathroom's medicine cabinet for condoms, deeply pondering on whether i would be checking for condoms if she were dead. "ain't the question," i heard my myself utter, as if adopting the cadences of a graphic novel's caricatured protagonist.

"what is the question then?"

the voice had come from the bed. a sultry voice piercing the quiet, as vivid as areolae on a summer day during National Magnifying Glass week and Breast Awareness month. a memory stirred. i forget which one. i asked her name and a list of 20 things that turned women on. she moved out from under the sheets revealing the embellished cartoon body of a comic book heroine. my eyes focused. my breath drew in abruptly. she *was* some sort of cartoon comic book heroine!

little did i know i had been preparing for this moment all my life. ever since the advent of moving pictures all manner of men have had to personally confront that most profound of philosophical conundrums... "would you hit it if it were a cartoon?"

[tune in next time for the continuation]

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her glance fixed solidly upon me as if a neural tick had caused her eyes to stop moving exactly as she was looking my way. i became a tumult of red faced unease; the butterflies in my stomach beat their wings so ferociously i felt sickened. ashamed, i chided myself for eating nana's butterfly collection out of spite earlier that evening. the wretched bitch hadn't fed me in days; i had had no choice, for i had had a hunger not unlike that of a starving third world child who had never had anything his entire life except vicarious purpose through metaphorical reference. and just as the slum flies buzzed around his starving countenance, my heart buzzed at the prospect of an encounter with the beauty across from me.

her lips beckoned, poised suitably above her chin. her elbows were those of a goddess, affording a wider range of motion than would be possible without them. alas. her princess ears must have heard my adoration for my inner monologue was flowing audibly like my tourettes. fuck! ck. gg-gg. aaaaaaaaasssss! all was not lost. i noted to self to remember to tivo Lost that night, after making sweet love to that which i beheld before me. then, averting my eyes from my sweaty palms, i once again tried to meet her gaze. but it was not to be for hers was buried deeply in her book, which rested gently in the valley of her lap, where the pastures must have been as green as eden, not in a sea-of-evolving-micro-organisms sense because that would be gross. my stop was approaching.

[tune in next time for the continuation]