Rob's Desert Island All-Time Top 5

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London Calling To the zombies of death
Quit holdin' out -- and draw another breath

*BEEP*

Rob is sitting in his apartment, listening to the Talking Heads, and looking calm, if still a bit confused. After last night's encounter with Parker...

Well, it was all very surreal.

Rob is at the counter, looking not at all well.

**Narrative Monologue On**
There's a reason they call it a hangover. Observe my body language right now. I'm hung over the counter like a pair of pants on a wire... hanger. My head is killing me. In the last week, I've been dumped, dissed, accosted by a giant white ball, and blackmailed. It really, really, really can't worse.

And why aren't I still drunk? Apparently, sobriety is on my to-do list.
**Narrative Monologue Off**

Rob is sitting in his apartment. Rob is very very very very very very very very very very very drunk, mostly from the bottle of Jagermeister clutched in his right hand, still unremoved from the paper sack. He is dangling a cigarette from his mouth and listening to The Cure. This can't end well.

***Narrative Monologue ON***
I'll be the first to admit -- I don't know much about girls. But I do know this: they like romance. They like flowers, they like chocolate, they like poetry. They like these things from somebody they don't find incredibly creepy, and they like them as a prelude to less romantic activities. I've read chick lit... for research purposes, of course, and that's pretty much taught me what I know about the modern woman.

Except, um, I still don't get certain parts of it. Like why Parker hasn't shown up at the shop for a few days. Over that violent, blood-soaked weekend, I really thought we came to a kind of connection. Something heartfelt, meaningful. Something I might not fuck up this time. So then I don't see her for a week afterwards. Maybe she's worried that I don't feel the same way, y'know. I've been known to be a kind of closed-off guy, emotionally.

So I went ahead and commissioned some poetry for her. I mean, chicks dig rhyming couplets, right? Isn't that how all great rock stars get laid?

***Narrative Monologue OFF***

Rob slips on I Just Called to Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder. He's really come to appreciate the song in recent days. He settles onto his familiar stool and watches the lack of customers completely fail to peruse the racks.

Rob plays every lovestruck/angsty Elvis Costello tune he can get his hands on to varying levels of customer response. Complaints or adoration are ignored, however, in favor of a far-off glazed-over look. Rob has that Feeling... the kind that the world's worst boy bands warble about without a clue of their lack of talent.

He is in Love.

With a 16-year-old teenage woman.

Rob is very, very, very, very sick -- which he realizes, acknowledges, and then goes back to swooning.

Zombie apocalypse will do funny things to a man's heart.

The door to a utility closet is shaking. Hard. Behind the door are sounds that could only be made by a very passionate couple trying to keep as quiet as possible but being far too turned on by the concept of needing to be that quiet.

Finally, two naked bodies come tumbling out of the closet. One, female, looks very satisfied and more than a little dangerous. The other, male and much older, looks entirely smitten in a very pervy way.

Rob (the male) speaks: "Wow. That was... where'd everybody go?"

As if today couldn't get any more strange, looks like it might start to rain here soon.

*wonders if he should play a little Petula Clark just for irony's sake*

Angela? Roll out the mats in front of the door.

*can't get The Clash - Go Straight to Hell out of his head*

*smoothes shirt*

*double-checks that all blinds are down*

I have the libido of a dolphin. And brain of very horny monkey.

I don't know if I should be disappointed or grateful that Parker just took off. On the one hand, probably means there'll be fewer opportunites to commit statutory. On the other, it probably means there'll be fewer opportunities to commit statutory.

Okay, yes, she said something about it, but I wasn't really there, you know? I was too busy trying to annex her tonsils with my tongue.

*shakes head* Don't suppose I'll see her again. Or if I do, it'll be one of those weird situations where we make brief "sex-in-the-past" eye contact and then find something else to look at, preferably something that makes us look cool.

Plus, there's a kid who looks like a pintsized version of me running around. This town just gets freakier every day.

*drags self home after shindig*

***Narrative Monologue On***

Definitely not opening the store until at least noon tomorrow. Possibly later.

I shouldn't drink on a DJing job. I know that. Doesn't mean I don't ignore it sometimes. I gotta get a set of rules for myself or something, especially around underage temptresses like mparkerceo.

I realize that I'm going to hell. I was going to hell after Penny Hardwick back when I was in high school. I just don't want to go to the special hell where I get arrested. I gotta find myself a teacher or something. I can't be getting this desperate that I'd even consider messing around with somebody half my age...

***Narrative Monologue Off***