Fame

Fame. . . she is a bitch. Let me just tell you. All these fans and their comments. All the sudden, people want something from you. I think I know why Brad and Jen broke up now and why Michael Jackson went crazy. I keep asking myself, is it really worth it? Do I want to end up like Michael Jackson?

But then I think about Pizza Girl. How, the next time she delivers, she’ll maybe recognize me, you know, because of the fame and all. She’ll recognize me and then we’ll start talking and eventually fall in love. She’ll be like my muse and my secretary, and we’ll eat free pizza and live like famous artists or something. Probably have to move to a new apartment. Mine is too small. She’ll get into modeling and stuff and I’ll keep writing. Go to those parties where people take your picture all the time. Might have to hire some bodyguards (don’t want to end up like Whitney Houston in Bodyguard). I better do my push-ups and order some more pizza. I hope she's working tonight.

Pizza Babe

Tried to write that poem for Linda today but I couldn’t think straight. The Pizza Hut girl was so foxy I forgot my own name. She came to the door and I just locked up. Couldn’t move a muscle. When I remembered that I could move, I couldn’t figure out what to do with my arms. She didn’t seem to notice, but my hand shook the whole time I was writing the check. I Gave her a $15 tip on accident but I didn’t care.

I always had a thing for women in the food business anyway, but this babe was like a model or something. I swear it. Probably be seeing her on TV some day. You watch. She was that foxy.

I was too flustered to do anything but eat the pizza, so I didn’t do the poem for Linda. All I got was this: Love Poem For Linda (that’s the title). Do you like it?

No push-ups today. Better get some rest. Don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow I go for 30.

Push-ups

Just did 25 push-ups. Not too bad. I could have done more but the carpet in the bedroom smelled like pee and socks. Every time I came up, I didn’t want to go back down again. Try for 30 tomorrow in the TV room. Probably start working in some sit-ups sometime next week. Yeah, I’ve been trying to work myself back into shape a little bit. Maybe lose a couple pounds.

I bet you can’t do 25 push-ups right now. I mean real push-ups—all the way down, all the way up. Go ahead. Try it right now. Let’s see you. Back in the day, I could do them one-handed no problem. The girls would always ask me to do one-handed push-ups for them. Sometimes right in the middle of the hallway between classes.

“Ooh, it’s Harry Deal,” they’d say. “Show us your muscles, Harry. Do some push-ups for us. Pleeeeease, Harry Deeeeeal. Bet you can’t do a hundred.”

I knew they were laughing at me the whole time I was down there. I’m not stupid. But I did it anyway. I had a whole routine. I’d start out with some straight push-ups, then do a few with some hand-claps in between, and then I’d start doing one-arms, switching back and forth from left to right. Then at the end, when a whole crowd had gathered around me, I’d pump out a few more regular push-ups, spring to my feet like no big deal, and flash the hang-loose sign before making tracks. I knew they were laughing, but this one girl, Linda Johanson, I was pretty sure she might secretly like me. I really thought I could impress her. I guess these days what I would do, instead of doing my push-up routine for her, and since I’m getting into words, I’d probably write her a love poem.

Here I go. I'm sticking my big, hairy toe outside the curtain. I'm on the wide, white stage with my big, hairy self: all man, all confidence, all business, baby. Behold! The Big Harry Deal.

So I'm Harry, Harry Deal. Nice to meet you and all that. What'd you think of my entrance? Too flowery? Too bold? Maybe I overdid it a little, I don't know. I've been taking some writing classes at the Barnes and Noble (If my punctuation is messed up, it's all Darryl's fault. I swear he doesn't know what he's talking about sometimes). Tell you one thing, though, there was some serious butterflies going when I finally went to hit that "publish" button. You bloggers got my respect. And I haven't even really said anything yet.

Anyway, yeah I'm big, my name is Harry, and I'm also a hairy person, so hairy that people say I probably got hair growing on the inside of my body too. So what? Get over it--probably something wrong with you too (nose too big, zits everyplace). I'm six foot one and weigh about 320. Right now, I don't really know how much I can bench, but in high school I maxed out at 350. If I had to guess--me and you walk into the gym right now--I'd probably out-bench you. Nothing personal. I'm just telling you.

Anything else you want to know, you ask me, I'll tell you.