Fucking alarm clock.

Shut the fuck up, I’m almost there.

Finally. No more beeping.

I swear to God, whoever decided that alarm clocks should sound so horrible should burn in hell for it. As if it wasn’t bad enough to have a clock that wakes you up, we all have to deal with waking up to some horrid, shrill shrieking. What a sick bastard that guy must have been.

I’m just being an asshole about this, now that I think about it. It’s not the clock’s fault that I bought it and set an alarm on it. I don’t know why, but people seem to get some sort of comfort out of hating their alarm clocks instead of the people that make them set them to such an early hour. The machine can’t help it, but then again, it can’t sue us if we beat the shit out of it every morning and threaten it with physical violence. Whatever makes people happy works, I guess.

God damn it, I hate this fucking city. Especially from the view out of my window. It just has to be situated right next to another shitty bricked building. All I see are ancient, fading red clay bricks. If I look down, I get a luxurious view of a dumpster and the occasional homeless man. What a privilege.

The worst part of waking up isn’t just that you have to stop sleeping. No, it’s also the fact that you have to stop sleeping in order to go do something you don’t want to do. Like work, for example. It’s a classic double whammy situation. Hey you, stop indulging in fantasy and go do shit you hate, please.

I’m sitting on my bed, unshaven, almost naked, eyes heavy, head pounding, and pissed off. Not a great way to start the day, but it’s the only way I know how, so fuck it, I’ll deal with it. I’ll toss together some breakfast and put on some music to distract myself from the fact that I’m miserable. Now I‘m shaving. Damn, cut myself. And again, ow. Son of a bitch. I should just grow a beard instead of wasting time every day shaving my face. But no, my boss thinks that facial hair isn’t professional looking. He’s just insecure because he lacks the male hormones necessary to grow anything more than high school stubble, that prick. Don’t make me suffer because you can’t grow a mustache any better than your mother can. How the hell is facial hair not professional looking? Burt Reynolds has a great mustache, and I’d definitely do business with that guy. Sean Connery has a beard, and he’d make a great CEO. Who knows where my facial hair could take me? I could be the head of a Fortune 500 company, sitting at a mahogany desk, stroking my majestic beard with a tiny comb. But no, my manager has balls the size of pistachios, so I have to cut myself daily. The only good thing about the whole situation is ending the day with a nice five O’ clock shadow and making sure my manager sees it, just to make him insecure about his already questionable manhood. He probably can’t even grow chest hair, that bitch. I’ve had chest hair since I was a junior in high school. Here I am, the very picture of masculinity, restricted by office dress codes. Typical.
Traffic Jam. Perfect. Just what I need. I’m stuck on a city bus, I have bits of toilet paper on my cuts from shaving, bags under my eyes, and I’m going to be late again. The asshole in the car in front of the bus has a bumper sticker on his minivan. “My Child is an Honor Student at Oaks High School”. Whoop de fucking doo, your kid has a functioning brain, and yet you’re stupid enough to put a big sticker on your car bragging about it. The guy in the other lane has another bumper sticker from a presidential election that ended 8 years ago. It’s for the candidate that lost. I don’t know if he’s trying to be funny or if he’s just lazy enough to leave it on his car. I take a look at the guy stuck in traffic next to the bus. He’s driving a sports car. Two doors, tiny little thing. The man driving it looks like he would be about 5 foot 3 inches standing up. Receding hairline. Beer belly. What a man. At least I know I’m doing my best not to end up like that. Even if I wind up being physically identical to that guy, at least I won’t be deluded enough to think that buying a sports car will make people look past my body just because I have 250 horsepower under my hood.
Wow, I sound really conceited. It’s probably because I’m so tired and pissed off, but that’s not much of an excuse. I wonder if I sound the way I think- like an arrogant asshole. Hopefully I’ll be a more likeable thinker once I wake up.

Here I am, walking into the office again. There’s the secretary. She creeps me out. I don’t know why. She’s nice, but a bit off. She’s just too happy. I think they put drugs in her coffee. Waaaay too cheery. I swear, her dog could get run over and she’d come to work smiling like a porcelain doll soaked in morphine. Just once, I’d like to see her just a bit pissed off, so she’d seem human. I won’t bet on that ever happening, though. She greets me with a gracious and sincere “good morning, what a lovely day, etc.” shtick. I force a smile and an appropriate response. It’s way too early for this shit.
In my cubicle. Lovely. So spacious. I can hardly contain my desire to decorate it with macaroni pictures and photos of my family and tiny framed pictures of sassy little mottos like “HANG IN THERE”. At least, I might feel that way if I was married or had kids or was brain dead. Kind of like Chris. Of all the people in the office to share a cube with, I get the most air-headed, passive, dependent lump of clay in the building. He made it to work before me, like always. A smile on his face, he makes a little joke about how I’m always a tiny bit late. I force a smile back and stifle the urge to roll my eyes. He’s a good guy, but he lacks any sort of personality. He’s just so malleable, it’s out of control. He’s all about the job, and nothing else. He probably puts a paper bag with a picture of the CEO on it over the head of anyone he makes love to, if he somehow has a romantic life. Even if he did do the bag thing, chances are that he’s probably better with getting with women than I am. He’d just melt into the atmosphere of whatever club he went to, schmooze with some ladies, and I’d be stuck alone, only being hit on by drunk chicks who were on the rebound from abusive relationships.

Oh shit, here comes Mark. What a horrible manager. All he ever does is criticize me for being 2 minutes late and nit-pick about little details that I apparently fuck up royally, like putting a staple in the wrong place or not having a neat enough workspace. Here he comes, with his little stump-legged strut, shoulders back, impeccable posture. I’m pretty sure that the office is the only place that he’s even remotely confident.
He’s here now. Chris starts some chit-chat with him. Mark enjoys it, and they go back and forth with meaningless banter. Mark finally settles on me and tries to look stern. He ends up looking like a moron. I won’t burst his bubble, though. He’d only have that much more motivation to annoy me. Oh God, now he’s going to start talking in that terrible little nasal voice.
“Morning, Jack. I couldn’t help but notice that you’re late again today.” Oh, God.
“Sorry Mark, but I got caught in traffic. I got caught up shaving this morning. You know, since it wouldn’t be professional to show up to work with stubble.”
“Well Jack, while I appreciate that you’re doing your best to look professional, you really need to get to work on time. I’d also appreciate it if you’d spruce up your desk a bit. Messy desks don’t make for a satisfying work atmosphere, you know.” It’s like he doesn’t even realize that having a self-important detail tyrant isn’t productive, either.
“Yeah, I know, Mark, and again, sorry about that. I’ll clean this up right away.”
“Thanks Jack, that’s the kind of attitude I like to see.”
“Ha ha, you got it, Mark. I’d better get to work, then, right?”
“Sure thing, Jack. Keep up the good work.”
Jesus, about time he left. I swear, he’s the biggest work deterrent in this office. He just goes around popping his fat little head into everyone’s cubicle, looking for something to point out, eating up time with pointless chatter, all that bullshit. It’s like part of the job description says to distract employees.

Finally, time for a break. Now I can get away from Chris. He’s driving me crazier than usual today. Maybe it’s because I’m more irritable than usual today. Or maybe it’s because he won’t shut up about how Mark is such a great manager. It’s probably a combination of both. Whatever, time for lunch.
And here I am, at the same little corner diner I eat lunch in almost every day. I don’t bring any co-workers with me. I prefer to keep my job acquaintances at a distance, to prevent my life from becoming any more affected by my job. Eating alone is a small price to pay for keeping job drama at a distance. The last thing I need is for Chris to be my new drinking buddy.
It’s a nice little place, this diner. Not too pricey, but the food is okay. The staff is good, and the manager and I are pretty friendly with each other. We sometimes exchange a bit of mindless banter when I stop in. It’s pretty good banter, actually. Not the best, but still formidable stuff.
Oh my God, it’s her.
It’s that waitress.
That one gorgeous, perfect waitress.
The one that I desperately want to ask out for a date but I can never raise the courage to do so.
She’s about to take my order.
FUCK, I LOOK AWFUL.
I’ve got cuts from shaving, little pit stains from being irritated by Chris and Mark, my hair is a mess, my breath is probably horrible, and worst of all, my self-esteem is even lower than usual. Damn it. I can’t ask her out like this, not today. All I can do is try to look as normal as possible.
“Hey there, are you ready to order?” Oh man, what a great voice. She should be on the news or something.
“Uh, ye-yeah, I’ll have a grilled chicken sandwich with the works.”
“And for your drink?” I desperately want to say “I’ll have a tall glass of you”, but that would be stupid and creepy.
“Water will be fine, thanks.”
“Alright, I’ll have that for you in a little bit.”
“Thank you very much.”
Son of a bitch, why’d I get a grilled chicken sandwich with the works? Why did I ask for the works? I don’t even LIKE the works. I guess I panicked. This is going to be a shitty lunch, but at least I don’t look like an asshole.
Oh man. This sandwich is terrible. But I have to eat it. I’m not going to just order a sandwich to look at it and leave it there with one bite for her to clean up. That reminds me; I have to leave her a tip.
Shit. Not much money left. I’ll have to leave it all if I want to give an acceptable tip. There goes my newspaper money. I’ll have to find something else to read later.

I’m back at work. I’ve got some time to kill, so I guess I’ll go visit Eric in the print shop. He’s probably the most interesting guy in the whole damn building. He always has something odd to talk about. I think he just wakes up every morning with some ludicrous idea or realization, and devotes the rest of his day to spreading his revelation with as many people as possible. He’s in the shop, carrying some paper. We exchange hellos, and I lean on the counter while he continues to work. Then he flies into his routine.
“You know what’s been bothering me, Jack?” That’s almost always how these conversations start, with that innocuous little cue.
“What’s been bothering you, Eric?” I know damn well that it’s going to be silly, but I love just listening to this guy. He ought to write a book. He just goes on about the most mundane things and makes them worth listening to.
“Well Jack, it’s about toilets.” Jackpot. This should be good.
“What about them?”
“Well, they’re almost always white.” I take the bait gladly.
“What’s wrong with white toilets, Eric?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them: they’re WHITE. We all know what we do in them. We defecate. We defecate on white porcelain or ceramic or whatever they’re made of. Our excrement is generally a dark brown. Don’t you see where the problem is?” I can see where he’s going with it, but I also want him to continue, so I say I don’t see anything wrong with the situation. “Well, you’re getting smears of brown on the white toilet. Shit stains. How many times have you gone into a bathroom stall, only to see shit stains all over the inside of the bowl? It’s gross. Why don’t people buy darker colored toilets? It would lessen the contrast of the excrement on the toilet, and it wouldn’t look as gross. That’s what I’m saying.” I decide to play devil’s advocate. I’ve got some time.
“But the color won’t change the fact that feces smears. Wouldn’t people just not notice the smears, and leave the dirty toilets without being prompted to clean them? The white shows when there’s a mess. Dark toilets would be as good a gauge of when a toilet is dirty.”
“That doesn’t matter. People should clean their toilets regularly. They shouldn’t wait until the bowl is covered in brown to clean them. People should clean their toilets on a regular basis, not just when they think they look filthy.” He’s obviously thought this through. I wouldn’t expect anything less from Eric. I want to keep going, but it’s time to go back to work. Son of a bitch, I don’t know how many great conversations of ours have been cut short because of that. There’s not much I can do about it, though.

Back in the cube. Chris isn’t back yet. He’s probably kissing Mark’s ass at the water cooler. I have a strong urge to mess with his desk. I want to really mess up his organization system. He’d flip out. I won’t do it, though. Mark would be on my ass like a tabloid on a kidnapped rich kid. He wouldn’t stop even after the police found my body, dead from exhaustion and nagging. What an awful way to go. I’ll just concentrate on my work.
Forms forms forms paperwork paperwork phone calls phone calls phone calls oh God this sucks.
Chris is back. He reminds me that Mark wants me to clean my desk. I tell him that if Mark wants it cleaned so badly, then Mark can clean it himself or hire a maid. Chris pretends to think that what I said is funny, even though he doesn’t. I already have to deal with Mark, I’m not about to let Chris turn into Mark Lite. Chris is bad enough as it is. He’s wearing a tie with little smiley faces on it. Not the little yellow ones, but assorted ones that look like they were drawn by a newspaper funnies cartoonist while having a stroke. Apparently Mark thinks that facial hair is unprofessional, but has no issues with ties that look that could make a comatose man sit up and wonder what would possess someone to purchase such an ugly article of clothing. Go figure.

Work is finally over. Thank God for that. I’m about ready to bust some heads right now. Mark doesn’t think that my latest report is acceptable because it doesn’t have enough visuals in it, and he wants me to do it over again. The report has at least seven graphs and other forms of visual aids in it, and all of them are relevant. But, of course, Mark wants some ClipArt. How professional. Asshole.
I’m on the bus again. It’s crowded, like always. I think the next to me is crazy. He’s wearing clothes that would look weird even in a Salvation Army store, his shoes don’t match, and he’s arguing with himself, changing voices every other sentence, from a low voice to a falsetto kind of squeal. I’m not annoyed or nervous or anything- in fact, I’m glad I’m next to this crazy guy. He probably makes more sense than anyone else on this bus, myself included. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Meanwhile, everyone else on this bus is busy looking at each other and making split-second judgments based on behavior and appearance. At least this mentally handicapped fellow has the decency not to treat me like a judgment call. He’s too busy for that, he’s arguing with himself over what to have for dinner tonight. It has to be kind of fancy, because his cat’s boss is coming over for dinner, and he has to make his cat look good if he wants a promotion. It can’t be too fancy, though, or else his cat’s boss will think that the cat doesn’t have any need for a raise or promotion if he can afford such a lavish meal. It’s a pretty sensitive situation. I hope that the guy figures something out. I get to my stop, and I wish the guy next to me luck. He thanks me, once with each voice. Nice guy. I wish I shared a cubicle with him instead of Chris. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so miserable at work.
I’m almost at my apartment, but I don’t want to go home just yet. I think I’ll stop by the park, after getting some cash from an ATM. I’ll buy a paper and have a nice read.
Okay, PIN number. Enter. Checking. $60. Yes, I will have a receipt, thank you.
I’ll just grab the New York Times. And a snack, too. I wonder why the New York Times is so much more widely distributed than other big-city papers. You can live in an ice cave in northern Canada and still manage to find a New York Times. It’s kind of a downer, too, if you don’t live in New York City, and you’re reading about all these great shows and events taking place where you can’t get to. They should make two versions of the New York Times, one for people who live there and one for people who don’t, and the latter wouldn’t have all that stuff that would only concern someone who lives in New York City. Honestly, as long as it covers national and international affairs and has a good crossword in it, I’ll buy it.
The park is nice today. I actually found a free bench to sit on, so that’s good. I can have a nice private paper-reading session.
Huh. I thought that guy was already dead. Weird.
Oh, those crazy Swedes and their parliamentary structure, always getting in trouble.
I wonder which of those Guinea countries this article is talking about. One of the African ones, most likely. Since when is that one Guinea-Bissau? News to me.

Damn, that woman over there is distracting. She’s on a bench with some other woman, about a stone’s throw away. She is a large lady. She sounds like she’s about to break into tears every time she says a complete sentence. Is she really sad? Is she suppressing the urge to sneeze? Is it just a weird speech pattern? The other woman looks like she’s trapped. She probably doesn’t even know the big woman; she probably just somehow got caught up in a conversation and doesn’t want to be rude, so she’ll just endure it until the big woman loses interest or something. I feel bad for both of them- the big woman for appearing so sad, and the other woman for having to deal with how sad the big woman appears to be.

Crossword time.
Three letter word for “female goat”: E-W-E
Four letter word for “space within a shape”: A-R-E-A
Four letter word for “American Bandstand’s Clark”: D-I-C-K

Wait a minute.

“E-W-E A-R-E-A D-I-C-K”.

“YOU ARE A DICK.”

Fuck this crossword.

On my way home now. Wait, what the hell? Is that guy on a Hoveround wheelchair wearing nothing but underwear in traffic? That can’t be safe. He’ll probably get a ticket for that. Maybe two, if you count indecent exposure. I wonder why he didn’t just use the sidewalk. He’s probably lost. Trying to get to the Grand Canyon or something. That’s what they do on the Hoveround commercials, go to the Grand Canyon, all thanks to their lovely Hoveround. If I ever got one, I’d probably get a really fast one. That way I could out-run people. Or out-wheel, I suppose. I wonder if I could rig some sort of device on it that would release oil slicks or thumbtacks from the back of the chair. I’d activate them with a button on my arm rest. I’d be unstoppable. Nothing would keep me from getting to the Grand Canyon. I wonder if there’s a Hoveround racing circuit. If there is, it’s probably not very exciting.

Back at the apartment. I should really do something with this place. I kind of want to decorate, but that would be pretty complicated. If I actually want this place to look nice, I’d have to shell out some serious cash. Home décor is just too expensive these days, and I can’t seem to drive myself to spend exorbitant amounts of my hard-earned money on an item that has no purpose other than looking nice. The only useful items are furniture, but that’s expensive, too. It’s also a pain in the ass to move furniture, as well. And then there’s the problem of making room for it. I just don’t feel motivated enough to invest in furniture until I really have to replace it.
The walls are pretty plain, except for a couple of framed prints of paintings by Dali. I would paint the place, but it’s only an apartment. I don’t actually own this place, I pay to live here. Unless my landlord decides to paint the apartment, I’m not going to do it for him. The fact that this place is an apartment keeps me from doing a lot of projects. Every time I consider doing something, chances are that I realize that this apartment won’t be my final dwelling. At least, I hope it won’t be. The realization that anything I do to improve this place is overshadowed by the fact that I won’t be here forever, and I should save the time and effort for when I get a more permanent home.
I wish I could have animals in here. It gets lonely in this place, since I’m the only person living in it, and I grew up having animals around the house. Of course, a lot of places don’t allow animals in the city, and I don’t want to pay extra rent every month to my landlord for shit stain insurance.
A cat would be nice. Yeah, I’d get a cat. Not a dog. Not in the city. I wouldn’t want to have a dog pent up in this place when I’m gone, and only get outside when I walk it, and who knows how often that would be. Besides, unless I get a small dog, it would be a pain to take care of a big animal. Cats are just easier. Of course, their personalities are sort of a luck-of-the-draw thing. You might get a cat that is playful and likes to snuggle and be petted, and other times you’ll get a reclusive cat that hisses and bites if you even try to touch it.
It would have to be either a really small cat, or a really big cat for me. I don’t really go for those middle of the road cats, I like the ones that stand out. Anyone can have an average sized housecat, but the lucky ones end up with either 6 pound kittens for life, or 20 pound cats that resemble bear cubs with long tails. The little ones are cute, but maybe a bit too small. I don’t want to come home to discover that my cat somehow managed to squeeze under the door and run away. The big ones are really cool, and great to brag about. There’s something about telling people that you have a cat that weighs 20 pounds that just feels great. Of course, those big cats shit like horses. Cleaning the litter box would be an even bigger chore than it should be.
Maybe I’ll just buy a hedgehog and hide it from my landlord. I like hedgehogs.
What am I going to do for dinner? Maybe pasta. Yeah, that sounds good and simple. Cooking is one of the things I hate most about living alone. With multiple people, you can at least take turns cooking. Same goes for chores.
Maybe I’ll screw around on my computer for a while before dinner. Man, I don’t know what I’d do without my computer. Thank God I had it custom built by a friend who is great with computers and ended up with a pretty good computer for hundreds of dollars less than what I would have had to spend on a retail model with the same hardware. I used the money to buy a big computer screen and I can use it as a TV as well as a monitor. It just saves me so much money and space, I love it.

Okay, now I’m hungry. Time to cook. God damn, I hate cooking. It’s just so tedious most of the time, and you end up just eating what you worked so hard on. It’s not a very good investment strategy, but if I don’t cook, I’ll get fat and go broke from living on takeout food, or have to eat awful ready-to-eat dinners almost every night. I did that for a while, actually, but I just got so fed up with it, I finally decided that having a meal that you had freshly prepared just for you is worth the effort, in most cases.
God, I took Mom’s cooking for granted. Sure, she may have cooked meals I didn’t really like half the time, but at least it was usually somewhat healthy, not to mention free of charge for me. Free, moderately healthy food I didn’t even have to cook. I did the dishes sometimes, but I have to do that for dishes I use for food I prepared and paid for, so that’s negligible.
I hope I marry a woman who doesn’t hate cooking as much as I do. If she did, we’d just fight nightly about who’s cooking what, and we’d make shitty food because we’d be pissed off. This would happen almost every night. This would be a terrible development.
I wouldn’t even need to have her be a good cook, as long as she didn’t mind the cooking itself. I think I hate cooking because I feel like it traps me in the kitchen. I find it so constricting. It’s like I’m tethered to the stove. If I go anywhere, I just end up worrying about what’s happening while I’m away. What if the pot boils over? What if I’m overcooking it? What if there’s a sudden gas leak? What if someone slipped into my kitchen and is messing with my food while I’m not looking? It’s just so stressful. So, I end up standing by the stove, waiting to actually be able to do stuff between waiting for something to boil or whatever. So boring.

Fuck, I overcooked the pasta. Typical. It’s the worst thing about cooking. You spend time on the meal, and if you mess it up, you just wasted food and time.
I’ll watch some TV while I eat to distract myself from how bad this pasta is. And nothing good is on. The news just ended, and now Entertainment Tonight is on. I swear, that type of entertainment is one of the reasons that people are such asses today. Why do people give a shit about what celebrities do in their free time? Why the fuck does any sane person want to know what Angelina Jolie wore to a movie premiere? Why is this on TV? There’s absolutely no integrity behind this shit. It’s all just insipid gossip about people that anyone watching the fucking show will never meet in their miserable lives. All they do is take pictures of celebrities when they’re outside living their lives, talk shit about celebrities if they’ve gained weight and then talk about how bad anorexia is. What terribly mixed messages. What kind of sentient being would write up a show script where they go from trashing some actress because she has cellulite at age 35, talking about how she’s on an “eating binge”, and how unattractive she now is compared to when she was younger- and then follow it immediately with a story about another celebrity who is now TOO thin and abusing diet pills and claiming that they’re anorexic? It’s so inconsistent in message, it boggles my mind. They’ll hate on a celebrity for months, taking embarrassing photos of them and putting them on national television, and then when said celebrity dies in an accident or drug overdose, they are suddenly treated like a fucking saintly martyr who led a virtuous life and whose tragic demise deserves more media attention than the millions of starving people in war-torn countries. The only thing that gives me comfort about it is the possibility that it’s only on the air because the only people who watch it are those that watch it because they need something to be pissed off about. I need to stop getting so worked up about it.

I need to go to bed. It’s late, and I don’t want to be late to work again.

Shit. Can’t sleep. I’m tired, but I just can’t sleep.

Just try to relax. Clear your head.

Fuck, can’t clear my head. Too cloudy and full of shit. I can’t just stop thinking. I can’t switch it off. Whenever I try, I realize that I’m trying to make it happen, and then I start thinking about it, thus defeating the point, and I’m back where I’m started.

It’s too hot in here. I need to cool it down.

Now my toes are cold. Need socks. That’s better.

Fuck, I still can’t do it. It’s 2:30 in the morning, I’ve been lying here for over an hour and a half. I can’t find a side to sleep on. Once I get comfortable, one of my arms starts to lose circulation because of the way I sleep, with and arm under my pillow, supporting my head. I need a better position.

3:30. Dear lord. Why me? Why can’t I go to sleep? Why are there people who can go to sleep in 5 minutes, and then there’s people like me who need at least an hour in bed to even begin to start the sleep cycle. It’s just not fair.

4:00. This is bullshit. I can’t stop my head from doing things. I can’t stop thinking, and it’s not even about anything important. I just want to sleep.

7:30. Mother fucker. I have to get ready for work. I slept for an hour. I am so angry about this, I could- well, I could go to sleep. But no, I have to go to work.

WAIT A MINUTE.

OH, FUCK ME, IT’S SATURDAY. NO WORK TODAY.

I’m going back to bed.

12:00. Okay, I need to get up. I don’t want to waste the day, even though I need sleep. I’ll just have to find something to do.
I’ll make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on toast. Those are good. Especially with chunky peanut butter. Great texture. I don’t care if people think it’s childish for an adult to eat PB & J, it’s a legitimate foodstuff, so I’m going to eat it.
I should put on some music. Something that will get me moving. Let’s see, what’s in my library:
Queen: Not in the mood for Queen. Even though they’re probably my favorite band. Their early albums are amazing, but no one seems to listen to them. People only listen to their Greatest Hits album, but it leaves out so any other great songs that are often better than the so-called “Greatest Hits”.
Black Sabbath: Too heavy for me right now.
Led Zeppelin: Maybe. Been listening to them a lot lately, I should listen to something else for a change.
Pink Floyd: Too mellow for right now.
Three Dog Night: Not in the mood.
Emerson, Lake & Palmer: I’ve been listening to them really often, too.
The Beatles: Tempting. I might listen to them now.
Tom Waits: Yeah, this sounds about right.
I put on his album Rain Dogs. Incredible album, and his first one that I ever bought. He’s so amazing, I want to sound just like him when I’m his age. It’s so gritty and harsh. The music is energizing, but not so much as to be violent, and it’s also mellowing. He’s got it all. Perfect for what I want right now.

I think I might just call up Eric and see if he wants to hang out. I’m bored, and even though I don’t usually hang out with co-workers, we don’t really work in the same department, and he’s just really good company.
I call him up, and I can tell that he’s surprised that I called. We arrange to meet at the park, near the fountain.

Man, if it wasn’t for parks, cities would be almost totally ugly. The park is the only place that anyone can go and relax in an environment that gives the illusion that I’m not surrounded by a concrete palisade. I don’t know what I would do If the park wasn’t here.
Here comes Eric. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a fishing hat, and beige pants. He sees me, and nods. We sit down on a bench after buying some hot dogs from a vendor. I’m hoping for a good conversation.
“How are you, Eric? I don’t usually see you outside of the office, but we only get to talk a little each day, so I figured it would be fun to talk without a time limit. How are things?” Eric takes a bite of the hot dog and begins to talk.
“I’m doing good Jack, and it’s nice to see you outside the office. There’s just something that’s been bugging me today.” Oh God yes.
“What’s on your mind, man?”
“It’s about the duck-billed platypus, man. They got shafted, and no one even knows it.” This is brilliant.
“How’s that?”
“Think about the name: “duck-billed platypus". DUCK-BILLED. Implying that their bills belong to ducks, and the platypus just are some sort of cheap imitation brand. Ersatz bill. But, when you go back far enough, I’m pretty sure the platypus had the bill before the duck did.” I love this shit.
“How do you mean, the platypus had the bill first?”
“I’m talking about evolutionary traits. Fossil records and other stuff like that have led me to believe that the platypus emerged as a distinct species before the duck did. Look at the platypus: it’s a pretty primitive looking specimen. Ducks, however, didn’t exist until after the platypus did. And yet, people talk about the platypus as having the bill of a duck, when in reality, it’s the duck that has the platypus bill. It’s because some guy who named the platypus had probably just seen a duck first, and said, ‘this looks like it has a duck bill, it must have gotten the idea from a mallard’. That’s bullshit.”
“That’s a pretty interesting point, there.”
“Yeah, and there’s other stuff about it that bothers me. Why did they choose the bird bill that belonged to a duck? Why not a goose or something? And why did they even feel compelled to add the whole bill thing to the platypus’ name? Why not just platypus? Is there a platypus that had the bill of a falcon or something? It seems so arbitrary.” I’m glad I woke up today.
“Eric, can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.”
“Do you come up with something new everyday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well”, I said tentatively, “I mean, you have something new to think about every day. Do you just wake up each morning and realize something, or do you have several of these thoughts floating around all at once, developing at different rates?”
Eric leans back against the bench and crosses his legs. “I can’t really tell you. I don’t know how it works. I just… think. If I see something or read something and I feel like it doesn’t answer everything, or if I notice something odd, I just think about it until I can make some sense out of the whole situation.”