K-Roo had put on some weight, as he was sadly wont do. Having been spoiled with sweets by his grandmotheroo when little had created a trajectory which turned out, years later, to be a little bit tricky at times. Yet a first-world problem if ever there was one was weight gain. The evening was a Saturday night; and in the City, one needn’t a calendar to tell, just a window out onto the streetlamp- & starlight-lit world of skirts & dress shirts outside.
It was an odd imprisonment, the imprisonment of oneself in the present on account of one’s actions in the past. Such actions affected the future always, and by simple virtue of physics & one’s death ever-impending, accordingly posed an extremely serious problem.

The present is what everyroo has. The future is all that anyroo has the ability to shape, make in accordance to his or her will [in the present] or no. There are obvious conditions & impediments as regards this edict of sorts, but suffice it to say for roos living in the West in 2014: a lot tended to be fixable. At all events & speaking solely for himself: K-Roo had to readily admit that any shortcomings in his current appearance were due largely to his own failures & missteps, and all having occurred over a definable period of time. And while it went went without saying that not everything in this world could be fixed, it also might be said that it was a terrific waste of time & energy to be troubled by broken things that, with some time & other energy, could be set back into working order.

§

It happens in life that sometimes a kangaroo sees a rooette so stunningly attractive that he remembers the image of her— a perfect strangeroo (and all the periphera about the scene & moment in which she’s seen)— for the rest of his life. Depending entirely upon the mood of a given, later moment in which the beautiful strangeroo’s image is recalled: either great inspiration & a potential for new life is felt, or else the diametric opposite thereof— generally in the form of a cue for self-loathing.
Poochypouch wasn’t feeling so inspired or loveable this evening. He wasn’t feeling all that well at all, in fact. The morning mirror reflected a total absence of the jawline he’d just a couple or so weeks ago had— a fact wholly unsurprising given the great quantity of ice cream he’d recently eaten versus the paucity of hours he’d exercised or for that matter even slept.
But not feeling it interesting to dwell upon the mistaken ingredients of his last few weeks, he decided to digress to a more substantial problem. [All the while: knowing full-well that his “more substantial problem” directly resulted from that which he neglected dwelling upon.] Riding his bicycle in Manhattan today, K-Roo saw one of the most beautiful black-haired rooettes he’d ever seen in his life. Trackstanding at a stoplight as she passed, his neck was made of rubber. No chance with her did he have. Her legs were unprecedented. The whole situation was just amazing. He’d never even used the word “unprecedented” in describing anotheroo’s legs before, but that was the fact of what they were. She looked amazing, was beautiful. Just the realization of his total lack of chance— the unlikelihood of her eardrums even registering his voice— was as astounding as it was depressing. Nevertheless: in a split second he was ultimately grateful for the moment, as it let him know where he stood.

Over time & in the best and worst of such times: MC K-Roo had to admit that he was not always comfortable in his body. Lucky was he to have known times when he in fact was; but it was his largely self-created problem that he presently existed in a time in which he was not. Life can kill— just because it feels like so doing; and this time around it did, and so a part of him felt pretty dead accordingly. So here it seemed was a fork: he could thusly continue to be dead in that one way, or he could get on with it & die in another. Understanding metaphor, Platy once mused, was in all likelihood the world’s primary hope for forging through its present darkness, the only finger holding fast betwixt the neck & the noose. The winter of 2013–14 was long & with menace; but now, however, the spring was here. (Was it not?)

K-Roo poured himself a light beer. He was switching off between it & non-alcoholic beer, as the idea of drinking less appealed to him. Everything was in the balance. He’d experimented with sobriety before & rode the wagon for some months, eventually jumping off for fact of the fit not feeling quite right. The middle ground posed a project worthy of investigation: not infrequently did either/or relations tend to create new problems in place of the old ones “solved”— not least of all by frequently presenting false dichotomies. K-Roo was currently looking for something different, and if in the end he didn’t find it: then at least he’d have had the experience of having tried.

The out-of-his-league rooette bicycling upon the bicycle remained in mind. The night wasn’t great. He poured another & wrote. To the tune of the great 1982 Altered Images song I Could Be Happy, he— quietly & in his room, softly before sleep— penned a slightly revised version as follows:

Trapped in a body on a Saturday night
I could be happy, I could be happy
Clothes aren’t fitting ’cause they’re feeling too tight
I could be happy, I could be happy
You’ve gained some weight & now you wish didn’t
I could be happy, I could be happy

All of these things I do
All of these things I’ve done
To get away from… what?
Get away, run away, far away, holding on
Get away, run away, far away, where am I?
Just here again.

Trapped in a body on a Saturday night,
I could be happy, I could be happy
Beautiful rooettes out donning spandex so tight
I could be happy, I could be happy
Well-groomed roos link their arms on the street
I could be happy, I could be happy

All of these things I do
All of these things I’ve done
To get away from… who?
Get away, run away, far away, holding on
Get away, run away, far away, where am I?
Just here again.

Their laughter trails off as I stare at my feet
I could be happy, I could be happy
Their bedroom door opens, the room remains dark
I could be happy, I could be happy
Fur against fur and a few static electricity sparks
I could be happy, I could be happy

Get away, run away, far away, holding on
Get away, run away, far away, where am I?
Get away, run away, far away, oh how did I?
Get away, run away, far away, please help me now
I’m here again.