whooooa has it really been two weeks since my last post?
so much has happened in that short amount of time that I found it difficult to put into words until the dust had settled and the horizon was clear, if you catch my drift.
Time is a bitch, time is an elusive, masochistic fickle little cunt. you can never really get the hang of her.
One day you think you got her down, you got your hands wrapped around her perfect, hourglass body, feeling the minute particles and sand sift through your fingers. witnessing the ebb and flow of her minutes and hours and sunsets in perfect alignment with your very breathe. these are the fleeting moments of perfection we are unaware of, these are the brief vignettes of our actions and intentions existing in flawless accordance to our original design and purpose as individuals.
Than, there are the times she slips from our grasp, our aging, flailing hands clutch at empty air that is itself decaying around us. The minutes reveal themselves as hours and the breathes we took have stretched to unbroken slumber, stealing moons from us unwitting to the cruel machinations compelling us to awaken.
I reached out and wrapped my hands around that thieving cunt once again. Clutching her tightly to my chest I survey my surroundings and take inventory to see what she has made off with throughout my long, unbroken slumber.
I find myself in a small, windowless room. the floor is hardwood panels and there is scattered furniture in varying states of functionality in each of the four corners.
I have a room now, I answered a craigslist ad for a room in shoreline (the poor man’s seattle) and wrote some girl a check for 530.00. I have vague memories of this happening, but it’s all through that hazy, sepia filter of heroin addled retrospect. So far so good, at least me and my girlfriend are no longer wifi gypsies camping out in her car every night.
I check my phone and find that, at 2 o clock in the morning. the girl I assume is my landlord has sent me a very earnest, very indignant three page text relaying to me “some concerns” from the current tenants sharing the downstairs.
I moved jam, strawberry jam to be exact. Inside the fridge there are shelves, as is usually the case with fridges, and these shelves are marked with helpful numbers that are intended to enlighten me on where things go in the fridge. My shelf is number two, the tolkienesque text message informs me. By moving the strawberry jam from shelf one, to shelf two, I had thrown the thirty three year old sailor moon fan that is my roommate into such a state of confusion and disarray that he has taken to hiding out in his room (my mind’s eye insists that he is clutching onto either a full-length-anime-schoolgirl body pillow or Fluttershy My Little Pony stuffed animal for dear life) and texting the landlord insisting that I need to be thrown out into the cold, prostitute wandered streets of shoreline for committing such an atrocity.
It is early, I am tired, I am sober.
I remedy my sobriety and mounting disgust at such a banal accusation through my usual means and get rid of the evidence. I must adapt, I tell myself as the heroin slides down the foil, letting its sooty dragon’s tail coil about the foil marking my progress and increasing ability to cope. Somedays you adapt to sleeping in the car, other days you adapt to appeasing the overweight-shutin-anime god with offerings of apologetic strawberry jam and taking the time to read everyones mind to find out the storied rules and regulations of the communal kitchen space.
these are the places life leads me to, and when the journey is over and the trail behind me surpasses the horizon ahead I will be grateful for it.
Until next time