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I was told that it was going to be okay. I didn't believe it but I went on anyhow pretending that it was, that it didn't matter what the outcome would be. Heraclites would undoubtedly have said something pithy - you can never step in the same river twice, right? Well, it seems it doesn't matter if you could or not because sometimes things just run amok; the water is muddy, despite molecular structure, and you're going to slip on that mossy rock along the way across. Of course, you will still have to slog your way regardless of the consequences.
"ARG,"he shouted down to the street. It was another bustling down-town day. Business suits filled with stuffed heads shuffled by beneath him. Papers whispered around the gutters; political promotional debris. Though his shout echoed in the surrounding towers' corridor no one looked up. Some of the people below were witness to his morning ritual regularly, others could not fathom a man who would do such a thing, and none understood why he would produce such an expletive. Stretching, turning away from the window and scratching his backside, he resumed his oatmeal breakfast: blueberries on the top, brown sugar too.
I forgot to put the mail out yesterday and there will be repercussions. But I don't care. She came up to me after looking through it and indicated that one didn't have to go, that we might be canceling service or switching it to another location or something - I didn't understand what she meant - she said, "but the rest can go."She laughed and scratched at her forehead, "good riddance."It didn't make sense except in the most common of understanding, but I laughed anyway, producing a kind of Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœhuuuh huuuuh huuuh' of disinterested amusement. It made me die inside.
"Okay, I've gotta go. I've got my cell phone on me.- "Good. I've got your phone in my phone so if I need you I'll call.- "Okay. See you later.- "Bye, sweetie.- "Bye.- "Bye.- "Bye.- She closed the door on him as he turned to enter his car. Relieved at being alone, she decided her first mission would be to eat as much as she could. Not knowing him very well, she habitually refused food out of a long standing phobia her mother ingrained in her as a child. "Darling, sensible ladies don't eat second portions." She devoured another ho-ho.
I quoted seven passages late at night. No one seemed to know what I was referencing: "hers the ramble on the hill-side --mine the studies of the cloister."I repeated it while petting the fluffy, decadent pure-breed cat I had named after the story quoted. "The teeth,"I hissed into her face and tufts of fur bristled out from her pug nose as she pushed herself out of my arms. My sweet Berenice is always so loving and soft except when I pick her up. I think the height scares her, that she could die in my arms...or worse.
Puking into the toilet this morning, Charlene realized she must be pregnant. A flurry of horrifying images infiltrated her mind as her gut contracted and another half cup of fluid ejected from her mouth. Babies, doctors, examinations, pain, suffering, hours in labor, another shot, more tests. Then the kid - money sapping, emotionally draining, expecting more than she can give. Then her boyfriend: living together, yes, but no intention of real commitment. She was with him because he was there, right place, right time. He will not be happy. Charlene pulled her hair back again; she felt another wave come on.
Wasted and ruined, Harv stumbled out of the Lucky Tavern. He held onto a light-post and cursed at his shoelace, the world, his ex, and at the prostitute across the street that turned her back on him simultaneous to the tavern door swinging shut. Every last one of them was a bastard. I'll show them. Harv put his feet together and stiffened his knees. Allioop! One, two, three, Harv could feel the alcohol sloshing in his legs. One knee gave out. The other froze ridged. Harv leaned against a concrete wall, slumped to the sidewalk, pissed himself, and fell asleep.
"My sweater stinks,"Rachel said. "I've got that Stupid Girl song stuck in my head,"replied Melinda. "That's a good song.""Yeah, it's a good message.""For all of us,"nodded Rachel sagely. Carly smirked in the hallway overhearing the conversation. "I love your shoes,"Melinda said. Rachel gushed, "Thank you! I got them on sale last week.""Really?""Uh huh. Twenty five dollars.""No way."Carly could hear the women rustling through their makeup bags. "Where'd I put my mascara?"Rachel said. "I'd let you borrow mine but you know what they say about eye cooties.""Oh yeah, terrible.-
Gloria's mother had a heart attack. Just as I typed my first word for 100words the phone rang. My irritation was complete as I was about to vent on the stupid women in the gym and their obsession for crappy television. Suddenly my vent is pretty pathetic. Suddenly, heart attacks, convulsive crying, details of unfinished work projects, requests to contact specific people and relay the information is priority. Everything is quiet and the only thing on my mind is my own mother sitting in her chair just off the kitchen of her little condo, listening to the radio so politely.
My boss walked in. Usually this time of day no one was around. I made coffee, drank a cup while sitting at the conference room table watching the sunrise. I leapt from my chair and spilled coffee on my pants. He smiled, apologized. He asked where everyone was. I told him no one ever showed until nine. Raising his eyebrows, he nodded and pumped coffee into his special cup, the one with his most profitable client's logo. How long have you been with us? He asked. Bit more than three years, I replied. And what is it you do exactly?
Frost on the field of trimmed grass, the park is quiet, the residents surrounding still asleep. My dog is racing in front of me, running circles of excitement as I load the throwing thing with a new tennis ball. He looks into my eyes then back to the ball, assessing when I will throw it. I lift the ball and my dog bounds farther away. I can hear him panting; I can hear his paws crush the frosty stems of grass. The ball whisks across the field. My dog catches it in his mouth, grinding it until it breaks open.
Movies: Reefer Madness: the Musical, Cleopatra, The Music Man, What A Way To Go, Cyrano de Bergerac, Saw, Wing Chun...this list represents my Sunday occupation. Every Sunday I fill my bedroom with movies and flop under the covers. If I could rig a machine to pull the old disc out and put a new disc in the set up would be perfect. Potato chips, soda, piss bottle, candies, pillows, electric heating pad for the occasional ache, and a big fluffy dog to keep my feet warm; indulgent, perhaps, but part of my job. What point life if no leisure time?
She came back from a week-long vacation, tanned and with photos. This is us off the gangplank; here we are having drinks at the bar; she spilled guac down her shirt; where are we here, oh, Acapulco; this is a bird a peddler carried on his shoulder, Jenny feel in love; and this, oh, this is just a photo of me in an opium den. Yeah, Jenny thought it'd be funny so she made me lay down on that pillow. You're right, it isn't authentic; they do it for tourists. You can get a hit but I didn't, it's expensive.
Her face is fat, not round, not plump; fat, saggy, calumnious as she opens her thick lips to speak. "I never thought she'd quit,"her voice simpering with years of frustrated supplication, "I can't wait to see her desk cleaned out."Gut resting on her thick thighs, her blouse bunches around her unsupportable breasts, the fabric between arm and chest seems to be absorbing the fat and sweat as it is compressed. "She never did take my recommendation."Thinning stringy hair tied back with a translucent crest of short brown landing just above her eyes. "What makes triathletes so important?-
I pulled Wayne outside. He, baffled, asked me what I was doing. I told him it didn't matter just so long as he wasn't in the room anymore. I suggested he stay put while I ran back in to see on the conditions. He didn't want any of it. Struggling against my arms, Wayne bodily forced me out of his path so he could peek through the cracked doorway. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœI don't see anything,' he said. I rolled my eyes, Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœIt's all upstairs. But they'll be down here soon enough. We should scram.' Wayne spun around, blood shooting from his eyes.
He is the hardest worker I know. He has billed over 300 hours in a month. That's like 10 hours every day of the month. He's always switched on. I mean, only a couple times in my life have I billed over 200 hours in a month. I was down in Menlo Park and they were discussing Search Engines. The builder of the first search engine, Altavista, said that search is now at about a 1 out of 10. If Moore's Law is still applicable we'll see remarkable, relevant changes in the next few years. Technology will finally catch up.
You'd think she'd remember the password. After all, it was based off her last name and her computer times out after five minutes of neglect. The insouciance in her way of asking, "Do you remember my password?"I smile, not just because I do remember, and I nod and I say, "hsh, ae, four, el, el.""Oh,"she exclaims, relived and also sounding pathetic as though she knew it all along but was afraid to try it. "I can't believe I forgot.""Neither can I. How long have you been here?""Two months." I wonder how long ago she forgot.
Nothing amusing happened on any transportation systems. One day someone had a heart attack on the MAX ahead of mine and we were stalled for a few minutes. Twice this past week annoying people were in the gym so I opted to read instead of workout. To balance that, the past week included innumerable loud-talkers on the MAX whose lame, unctuous blather distracted me with such disbelief that returning to my book was near impossible. I wanted to slap one woman, her monotone guffawing was harsher in the cold morning air than any alarm clock. She should never speak again.
Writing out five pages of quotations from books I read this week, I can see my friends - those people who will receive my collection later today when they check their email - smirking and nodded. Some of them will identify, some will delete the message, some will print it out for reading later. I wish I could be there when, if, they read the quotes. I want to discuss these books with others but apparently no one read anymore so my solution has been to summarize and quote and hope that someone at some time finds something urgent enough to debate.
Every time taxes come around I reassess my income. Five years ago I made seven thousand dollars for the year. Four years ago I made ten. Three years ago I took a hike up to twelve dollars an hour. And the past two years have been waged at seventeen an hour. What I've always wanted was the minimum wage of lawyers. I'd be tattooed ear to ear and traveling every chance possible, a clown. I'd be so infrequently at work that my income would be reduced down to what it is today. I would join the circus and walk tightrope.
"Oh good, it's on time."She announced for everyone at the bus stop. She had just arrived. I'd been waiting for ten minutes, the guy next to me for four. The bus is late. "I can't believe I made it."The guy next to me starts milling around impatiently. I can tell he's thinking what I'm thinking: wish I'd taken my time getting here. I nod at him and he smirks, shaking his head and looking to his shuffling feet. The woman begins squawking about some TV show. No one is looking at her. She continues fishing for a reaction.
Different than advertised. If I abandoned 8-5 and took up 12-1 MWF, 3-4 T/Th, and Sat 9-4 what would be the difference? Could I make two grand a month bartending? If she makes $30 an hour per student how many students would she need to see per day to make two grand a month? Plus she has to pay her taxes and any insurance _and_ pay rent on her studio space. So, in short, if she keeps students scheduled every 8 hours, five days then she's making equal to a standard desk job. Hermes leads the way or leads astray.
Recently relocated and hoping to modestly display my wealth to advantage, I prepared myself for my first outing to the church. A fine black velvet dress with a train not so long as to require two assistants, with silver and gold bows around the bodice and in my hair, and a crisp white lace trim covering the indiscrete molding of my ample breast. I put on my most modest earrings, with only a little sparkle, and wore only my pearls to match the simplicity of my intentions. I sat in the honored pew with three attendants along my right side.
She's in a froth today, like every day, scurrying around with a white three-inch binder clutched to her chest, talking about how she has to draft cover letters and arrange the addresses and make sure the copies are made right so she can mail four sets of seven binders, much like the one she's adhered to, for delivery via Fed Ex on Tuesday. Her husband is having surgery Tuesday. Today is Friday. Yesterday she was tied up over having to come in Saturday as a client was sending mail for Saturday delivery. Finally she was convinced to request Monday delivery.
87 years ago my Grandfather was born. He came screaming into this world, arms forever folded into walrus-like flaps. His legs were thick and the bones broke easily. Doctors at the time thought he'd recover. They advised a physical regiment; spas, hikes, marching. His parents quickly realized that the more he tried to do the more his body snapped and pulled apart. They hired a young woman to assist him in every respect. She bathed him, dressed him, taught him to write with his teeth. Once his ability to express himself developed, it didn't take long for him to woe her.
Wabe's real name was Robert but when he was born his sister couldn't say Robert, instead calling him Wabe. His parents thought it was cute. To this day Wabe refuses the name Robert. He performs Friday and Saturday nights in an all-male review, dressed as a cowboy - vest, no shirt; chaps, no pants. His income is stable and he generally arranges dates with audience members for Tuesdays because he loves tacos and the nearest bar does a two-for deal he can't miss. Wabe is a licensed masseuse but stopped that line of work because clients expected too much emotional connection.
Forgot my bra today. Thought I felt a little too comfortable. There was a time when I never wore a bra. I was employed bartending, waitressing, and the less you wear the more tips you get. So I generally peeled down to strappy tank-top and tight jeans. In the summer, wearing flip flops would subliminally push customers into believing they were on vacation, and they would leave an extra buck or two. Maybe, though, summer just made them happy to the point that money no longer mattered. Or maybe it made me happy because I would stay out all night.
Pincheon sits at his desk, flipping a pencil from his fingers to the tabletop then picking the pencil up to flip again. Occasionally he chews the body of the pencil, leaving jagged impressions. His gaze is directed out a window across the light wood-floor room. The pencil clatters on the table and rolls some distance before his hand follows it, snapping it up and bringing it to his teeth for another chew. A robin bops on a branch outside, the sky is gray, Pincheon can hear his phone ringing in another room. Flecks of orange paint trail behind the pencil.
I've been looking for a book; a book that will tip me in the right direction; a book that will help me discover what I'm supposed to do with my life. As a child it was easy. I knew I was supposed to be, breathe, eat, shit, fiddle with projects and learn. Now there's a notion of productivity. One must earn his keep. I've been aimless, hoping to find my path. I just read a few pages in a book titled Undoing Depression. The one line that stuck with me was this: 1 in every 200 people will commit suicide.
To do list: Blog entry encompassing events of last night. Lunch packed for kids I pretend I don't have while online. Emails responded to in timely fashion. Voicemail reviewed to verify no missing tasks. Post-it Notes sorted into Must Do, Put Off, and Non Applicable piles. Text Message Jeremy regarding date on Thursday. Text Message Nicole in reply to message left before waking. Watch half hour of morning news. Turn on radio to verify nothing important was missed. Warm up car. Run through house in panic searching out house keys. Go to work. Begin new blog entry regarding life's disappointments.
What could possibly be better employment? Airline steward, art history teacher, botanist, chimera chaser, dentist, ergonomic designer, feather plucker, gastroenterologist, hair stylist, interpreter, jailer, kiln operator, liposuction technician, mechanic, nurse, optometrist, preschool teacher, quake researcher, revolutionary, schizophrenic sustained by the state, Tuvan throat singer, undercover detective, violin virtuoso, wandering wastrel, xylophone manufacturer, Yucatan tour-guide, zoologist. I have access to every music in the world, I can read translations of essays and stories, there are millions of cameras fixed globally that can be accessed for viewing, if I wanted I could buy a ticket to Guam or Ghana, Greece or Guinea.
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