Monday, December 21, 2009

Persipration equals preperation.

Sleep pattern is off.  Slept 9 hours on and off.  Mostly off.  A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer.  A back load of posts sit idly ping ponging in the memory of my computer.

I need to shower today, or at least brush my teeth.

Bowling later tonight.

A chance to see her.  The girl with the crucifix tattoo on her arm.  She slings bags of crinkle cut fries into the fryer.  The heat from the small cooking station leaving her sweaty.  Perspiration collecting on her forehead.  She wipes it away with the back of her hand and a smile.

She offers you free refills of Coke and you fall in love.

I have to go pay the electric bill.  I have to return library books.  My reading has slowed down, because of all the audio books I am reading.

I won't embarrass myself by listing them for you.

"But one of them was Twilight."  He grinned mysteriously. 

 As usual I was unable to interpret his grin.

It is dark in my room.  The sun is producing the gray shadows of winter rather than the yellow light of summer.  The world outside looks frozen still.  My window fogs up  like a bathroom mirror in the early morning.  I wipe away the fog with the palm of my hand.  My hand is cold and wet and now.  I place my clammy hands on the top of my forehead and feel for a fever.

My bowels feel squirrely.  Like the animal  is working its way out of me.  A yellow discharge is left in the bowl.  I flush.  I reach my arm behind me and feel the top of the commode for a bottle of preparation-h.  I stand awkwardly from the strain and slather a bit ointment on my buttocks.  I purse them together and yank my underwear back up.  I toss the medicine at the wall.  It makes a dull plastic coated thud as it bounces around and finally lands on the carpeted floor.

I pause for a second.  Remembering a conversation I had with a friend the other night.  He is having a midlife crisis.  He is wondering if all there is to life is having a family.

"Go to work.  Take care of your family.  Clip the yard.  Open your mail."  He says.  His voice is uncharacteristically full of melancholy.

"We are bodies."  I tell him. "It is a wonder we can ever forget that."

I leave the meaning of that statement for him to figure out.

"What ever happened to doing all those things we said we were going to do when were in high school?"  He asked.

"That was high school."  Another friend explains.

"People talk like that in high school." He adds.

"Maybe we never meant any of those things."  I think to myself.

"I feel like I am going to throw up."  My friend says suddenly.
Hidden behind the flickering shadows of the backyard fire he does.

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