February 25, 2010

It has been a hard day. You are probably looking for some happening to illustrate this, an example of something foul that transpired. No: this is, or at least its source is, mostly nuance. All inexplicable fury and typical social retardation on my part.

It is, you see, a miring in my own internal stink. And I never know how to say or what to say or when to say but I know what I am saying is as absurd as the trail of horseshit in the bicycle path in front of my office building today. I don’t know how it got there but it sure is stupid.

Fast forward to lunch over a tolerable vin de pays and my coworkers with their utensils midair quivering, quivering, I tell you, in their incredibly grown up restraint as I trammel on over normalday conversation with some pointless and inane pap. I am a staggeringly bad conversationalist.

You’re waiting for me to tell you something here, something that might at least serve as an excuse for this blithering, self-obsessed screed, but I cannot. I don’t have anything to say that will frame it. I don’t have anything that happened today that I can hold up next to my withered psyche and say, hey, look, this is why I’m acting like such an asshole.

There are two dogs in the house, one of them is a shark, or I call him sharkdog because he never stops moving. He is visiting and roaming around, he is a shark, I swear, he can never stop moving. It is strange how two dogs is nothing like two dogs but is instead suddenly like ten or fifteen dogs. I like this dog. I am like to climb the walls at this point.

Roll this schizophrenic personality disorder of mine in a sauce of disinterest and I think we’re getting close to what I am experiencing. There are things I usually like: reading, typing, reloading web pages, taking bad photographs, walking around, drinking, talking to nice people, coming up with new pastimes. I don’t like any of these right now.

Walking home in deep dusk today—time kept going by, so much programming, it seemed like so much effort to walk home, so it got late—I smacked myself in the face (metaphorically) and reminded myself that these streaks of falling into myself, of forgetting the outside world, losing balance and losing focus: these always get better. Strangely despite the anguish and interpersonal idiocy the thing that makes me the craziest is that everything seems boring. But I will regain interest, like regaining one’s appetite after a bout of bad pizza. I have to. It’s how I go on.

It would be an exaggeration to say that my step lightened at that point, that a burden lifted. But a resolution had been made. Somewhere around the corner of 6th and Alder.

It was at that exact moment that the crazy guy threw the sleeping bag at me. It bounced of my knees and snagged in front of my feet. I tripped over it. A gaggle of assholes on the opposite side of the street saw this, and immediately began laughing at me.

Having never been the victim of a guerilla sleeping bag attack, I am unsure of what to think. Is it a sign? Should I interpret it carefully? Or was it just a batshit crazy guy throwing a bedroll at me?

worshipping_booze on Flickr

This is the best I can do.

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