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Blue greasy hair from March snowstorms making my scalp
itch like that nagging little voice inside of me that says I should wash my pants,
wear a clean shirt and take a shower for Christ's sakes; I'd wear cleaner socks,
but the damn dog keeps ripping holes into the ones I have and I feign that I don't
have enough money to buy new ones. No money for socks? but enough for that coffee
on my right and the pen in this hand and the newly leased house a half a mile
away, but well within the rich white expresso town. Today the snow came down like
little beads of doubt. The sky would look down on all of us, grey and tied, then
snow would come down in sneezes, then nothing, then another little sneeze making
me sick of being outside and more sick of being inside. Dogs don't care. Dogs
sleep. I'd sleep too if I didn't feel guilty. I feel guilty of not locking
the door, or wasting a moment not learning... learning what? That there's much
more to learn and I am dumb; dumb like everyone else that tries to make sense
of the simple using complicated tools. This week is spring break for those who
go to college. I am left alone with anyone that's slightly younger than me, or,
slightly older. I hope one day to be able to go to Mexico for a week, to forget
the assignments I somehow got accomplished the Friday before, but I'm stuck in
a stall of five days of work a week and two days to find what will take my mind
off the next five days. I'm bored of all this, so I'm writing this such and such
in hopes to find a new path inside of me. I need to (this week) fix a bike wheel;
it was run over while I was run over, but its bent and doesn't turn the way wheels
do. Luckily, I could still walk like humans walk and could carry the bike like
humans can carry things and thumb a ride for the first truck to help me home.
That had to have happened three months ago, yet now I tell about it. Why?! I think
I'm scared to tell anything anymore. Boring people become boring when they hide
exciting things from other people... and then just become plain boring when they
hide exciting things from themselves. I may go soon to the store and buy some
food to eat. My cubards are empty of my favorites and food makes me feel good,
although I am still svelte with this appetite I still have from being 16. I tell
Dhalia I could live on oatmeal, beans, rice, vegetables and corn. She doesn't
believe me and sights the sugar and fat of luxury I consume for no reasons but
comfort and pleasure of the Route 66 way of abusing one selves body for fun. I
am going home to clean the house of our little messes, hide marks from where I
punched that door in rage - I have a map of San Fransico I bought at a bookstore
for no reason but; fix screen doors we've broken to break into out own house;
go home and make our lives look orderly like computers, so new tenets can come
in and go
- wow I love this little orderly place
and want to invest a years worth of our time living and breathing and loving and
fucking and fucking up right in this house.
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