Looking

I get it from my great grandfather. I watch, I look. I can't help it. I can. not. Help. It. 

            It's a problem. 

           I'm at a corner desk at a common through-way.  The stairs are right around the corner, as well as being surrounded by a lot of folks who are visited. Also a conference room is around the corner people schedule. So all day, people are walking to and from. They come around a corner and there I am. In my uncovered windowed glory. I can't help but be drawn to the movement. My brain says, "LOOK AT THIS THING!" and I do involuntarily. It's an issue. 

           People come around the corner and there I am most times, staring at them. Oh! I forgot, the printer for this area is within eye-view. (I typed "nearly forgot" first, then corrected. Ask me about that philosophy) So I'm always drawn and cannot help and my eyes dart up to who is coming around the corner or walking away. 

               The other side of this, is that I am incessant people-watcher. I love watching people and their natural state of things around here. Where they're going or talking about or how their face is or how gorgeous or odd looking they are. Why do they have a scowl or smile on? Why do they always look sad? Is that their natural expression or are they under a great deal of stress? I love going through these stories in my head and thinking pretty deeply what might be going on. i get lost. 

                This would be fine, except two things. 1. Work suffers. 2. I lock eyes, A LOT. I accidentally catch others who are coming around the corner, watching me! Or catching my eyes accidentally in return, I am the first thing you see when you come around the corner. I look at them and we have a silent, "oh shit sorry" moment. You know the one. But the even larger issue is that people who frequent their routes daily around my desk, most likely have notions as to what the hell I'm doing.

           For instance, a few people who walk together, a man and woman. No idea who they are or what they do but I DO  know they have way more responsibilities than I and get payed more. But I always ALWAYS accidentally stare when they stare back and I can see in their eyes they have their opinions of me. They talk quietly under their breath and I can feeeeeelll it's about me some of the time.

          Well, that's it. I watch and I probably come off an awkward watcher. Whatever. I am. 

Dedication

She did a line in the bathroom. "SHIT!" She lifted her head off the back of the toilet she was kneeling on. She wiped her nose and brushed her self off, slid back the latch to the stall and slowly swung it open to reveal the mirror. She stepped up to the sink, both hands on the counter and leaned over to the mirror slowly turning side to side slightly as she checked her face. Free of any residue. No one was in the bathroom thank god. She sniffed hard one more time and walked out of the bathroom.

             She had a problem, she knew it. but it got her through the day. She was incensed, obsessed, recklace and didn't know how bad. This was her new norm. it got worse and worse since she began but it always became the new norm. Always. Just the normalization of her using more and more as each week turned over into the next. As gradual as it was she didn't notice. She tried not thinking about it. When she did she used more. She had an endless supply. Nobody knew.   

               She had a stash in her purse. A stash in her laptop bag. A stash hidden in her filing cabinet locked up. A stash in her car, and plenty at home. She kept buying it and always bought more than she'd ever need. Shit, she'd need tubs in the basement at this rate. She used and used. She was so god damn productive.

        It began when a guy at a holiday party offered her some. She fell in love and he introduced her to his dealer, then he got fired. Boom. Magic. No one knew her secret. But things were getting out of hand. Very out of hand.  

            As productivity and focus grew, so did her responsibilities, therefore, so did her habit, which lead to better work and longer work and more efficient work, the endless cycle. She was in charge of people now. She was a boss, supervisor, team leader. Her complexion suffered so she wore expensive makeup. Instead of a cube, she moved to an office with a door she could lock. A desk to hide behind and drawers, cabinets and bookshelves to hide things. Her sniffles seemed like a quirk or common itch now. A mere tick. 

                   It began as a bump on the back of the toilet each day, leading to two breaks for a bump in the bathroom, leading to two bumps each visit. Leading to taking it in her office from a vile, leading to straight up doing lines right on her desk. She'd blow lines up, and head to meetings. Then, it began as an addiction and itch that needed to be scratched while she WALKED to the meetings. Then, as she walked ANYWHERE. She got good at piling as much as she could pack into tiny viles she bought online in bulk and popping their caps off in her pocket with notes and papers and folders and laptop in hand and with the other, single-handedly popping the top and pretending to scratch her nose as she inhaled the contents. She was excellent at this. A pro if you will. She'd get it all in one breath in from a single nostril and nobody knew. 

        She was excellent at making sure, without mirror or reflection that nothing was up her nose and she looked perfect walking in the minute the meeting started and commanding with great force and ability the whole meeting without falter and returning to her desk to grab 3 or 4 more pre-filled viles. All while carrying and inhaling a few on her way to and from anywhere. She would go so far as to inhale on the way to the bathroom, where her sole prupose for going was to do a few lines off the back of the pearlescent white porcelean. Whilie finishing her major binge, she'd inhale on the short walk back to her desk, where there she would prep and inhale more viles, more lines, more viles, more lines. 

           It became a game to her, a challenge. She would attempt in even more dangerous and obvious situations where she would call a meeting one-on-one with someone at her desk and freely inhale without any knowledge from the other that she was in fact, inhaling cocaine through one of her left or right nostrils. It was fun to her. A real adrenaline rush. The cocaine mixed with this rush heightened the experience and this need and the risk grew and nobody suspected.

                 7 months from her first bump to the present, she was taking inordinate amounts. All which she kept undetected and clean. her life now revolved around cocaine. The only reason she kept her position was because without it, there would be. no. cocaine. None. It fed her addiction. So she was the best at her job. Hell, they were looking at promoting her to the same position at a new startup off-shoot of the company that was growing exponentially because of her tireless effort in the field in California. She was intrigued by the idea. She toyed with it. As long as she had her stuff. 

           Then one day, she headed to the bathroom for her daily ritual. It was more of a boredom thing at this point. She went 4-5 times a day and would spend 10-15 there. She inhaled as she did on the way to the bathroom and got in the stall and locked the door behind her. As she did, she noticed her hand. It had a drop of blood on it. She then noticed it was her nose. She had a meeting in 20 and her nose was now bleeding. No problem. She reached for the toilet paper. 

       "Holy shit." It was all over her hand again. She whipped the paper so it spun out and out and out. She held a giant mess of it to her nose and in seconds it was soaked dripping. Frantically she spun some more out, now holding her head up, staring at the ceiling. In a matter of a minute or so she had gone through a roll and a half of toilet paper. Still not enough. She was bleeding out now. Things were foggy. 10 minutes to the meeting. She rushed out and stole a roll of paper towels that were sitting there on the counter not yet installed into the machine. She rushed back in and locked the stall, no one in the bathroom yet. 

            She did the same to no avail. Her head up, piles of toilet paper and paper towels now drenched on the floor in the stall, spilling out to the bathroom floor underneath. She was in trouble. "fuck." She heard someone coming in so she frantically knelt down to scoop up all the bloody towels and brush them back into her space. Blood all over her hands, her feet, the towels, the toilet. She got back up and it was much too fast. She fainted, busted her head on the back of the toilet seat, and died. She lied there for over 2 hours before anyone found her. 

                 She had leaked out her nose and promptly died. She didn't die from hitting her head, or bleeding out, or fainting. It was the cocaine. All that cocaine. When they found her, it had all crusted up around her. The towels sticking to the tile and the porcelain and her clothes. It had leaked some more out of her and it was all discolored near her face. All over her face and her blouse and even in her hair. She was a hot mess. A dead hot mess. 

                   Her children were devastated. When her poor husband was invited to go through her office. He found all the cocaine. Mountains of it. Piles and piles. There was more cocaine in her desk drawers than folders and papers and books. Blood was on the floor there too, blood was in the hall outside the door. Viles were scattered empty all over the office floor and in the trash and around the trash. It was a fucking mess. She was dead. There was more cocaine in her than life. Than her blood. Her autopsy report stated no one they had ever seen had ever had even remotely close to the amount of cocaine in their system than her. It was an incredibly heroic amount. She shouldn't of lived as long as she did. The thread was bare and torn. It was inevitable. 

       But nobody knew.  

                      

Entertainment

I'm only entertainment. Mere entertainment. A vacation for you while you sit and wait for something better to come along. 

           I am a filler guy, I'm a layover, a rebound man. I am your vacation from your troubles and only used to amuse you as you choose. A toy for you to bat around until you're done with me. A vacation to a faraway cabin alone, where you're so damn into me. But in public you don't know my name. You don't know me at all. I'm here to amuse you. I am only entertainment. Painful for me, a laugh and a gas for you. I'm a standby guy, someone you fill your time with until the guy you want is ready or free or open or responds. After HE is done messing around with his own filler guy or girl or perhaps YOU are his. Ever think about that?

          I am only the guy people talk to on Sundays when they are bored. Who they tell their deepest thoughts to but cannot give a morsel of their undivided attention to any other day or hour. I bleed and you do not. I'm hourly and you're salary.

flush hard

Here's to you. Getting cleaned every day at 10am on the dot by the miserable hispanic woman. I wish I knew her. She's on my level, secretly. But she doesn't know it. I wish I could befriend her. 

           Here's to you old friend. With endless supplies of toilet paper, paper towels and hand soap.

It's got it's quirks though. The stalls are facing the sink and mirror. The stall doors have a slight space in them about half an inch. So it becomes hard not to stare out at people who enter or exit stalls and go to the sink. I make accidental eye-contact every time. So do they. When I go to the sink I look and convince myself I've accidentally caught them catching me. It's not intentional. Why put the crack in the door? Why face them RIGHT at the mirror? Why not put a lip over the space so you do not feel as though you are exposing yourself to the world of sink people. Why put everyone through that?

            At times it's quiet. At other times it's too quiet. Not good. Others it's incredibly busy, not good either. But endless amounts of flushing and wiping make up for this.

       It makes you wonder in a professional place such as this, with everyone getting up and going, or exiting the bathroom. I pass fellow co-workers and can't help but wonder. Were they pissing? Were they shitting? A lot of people I work with go to the bathroom and take big loud smelly dumps. the PEOPLE I WORK WITH. So clean and proper. Taking big stinking shits. Right at work. Sometimes, WITH me. Unknown to me until the deed is done.

             It's tough for me not to wonder whether or not they were pissing or shitting. Or even washed their hands. Some, not anyone I directly work with that I know of, even piss and don't wash. Which I understand is a commonplace practice for men, (not me) but wouldn't you at least pretend if someone else is in the bathroom? For shit sake, pun intended. Why, just last Sunday, I was waiting in a Cumberland Farms bathroom, and an employee exited the stall from shitting presumably, and walked right out without washing his hands. 

          Now granted, we theorized the many other reasons he could've been in there. I did see an arm go up above the stall as he put on a long sleeve shirt. But many men take coats etc off to shit. I certainly remove a coat if it's on my person, god willing there's a hook. He wasn't in their cleaning, because there was toilet paper EVERYWHERE. So I can only presume he was shitting. Or so I'd hope. Because that makes for a better story. Even better, was he was immediately behind the counter, touching my change and handling my Chicken and Cheese Empanadas. Yes. I might have touched a shitty hand. In both respects of the word. 

               

Howdy Ho'

These folks I work with are great. But in their own clique. Have I mentioned that before? Probably a thousand. But here's a 1,001. Here I sit, with $11 to my name. and $4.83 in the bank, and everybody else here is on salary. In houses, apartments, married, and certainly don't have to worry about buying their lunch. 

            It's concerning and sad at times, but other times it's liberating. Living life on the edge. Oh is that what you tell yourself? YES yes it is. On the edge...of starvation. Forced starvation at times. So I can make it through to this substandard (but appropriate) first check (and the subsequent ones) so I can survive sub-normally again. To me, what most would consider povertous (is that a word? now it is) (Why so many parenthesis?) I consider luxurious (see the rhyme?!?) 

            Odd thing is, they all make her laugh. There's no room for me to as it's constant and overbearing, but...they're all married. They make her laugh, but they're all married. Goes to show work flirting is a thing no matter what. It's a different class in itself outside of your personal life. All bets are off and it's the wild god-damn-west. It's okay though because she is also their age and in a house (I think) and wants nothing to do with my like everyone else I've been interested in. 

              Yeehaw. Fuck.

why try

I should really learn to schedule these out. I can do that! I can set these to future times and dates so they're spread. But I have this odd mentality where I'd rather get it all out in spurts, then recognizing I have a lot of material and knowing that can easily stretch over the course of a week. I'd rather get 5 posts out in a day and not post for the next 6 days, than spread it over the course of the week. You know?

             I don't know. Not nuthin'. It is what it be ya know? I suppose my loneliness dictates.  I'm not sure where this post is going. I'm trying not to continue the thought process of the last post as I'm writing it directly after it. I'm in the mood to bleed. 

                    When I'm in a venerable and tied position such as now where I have nowhere to go and nothing I can do to hide, I write. This format is best as I can write freely and quickly, with my finger machines. type type type. Songs will come too. But I'll get discouraged if it's not original enough and they're all the same sometimes and I see this and get disgusted and disappointed and stop half way through. Sometimes I make myself even sadder by trying to write music. So bleeding on the page here helps more.

                 Sometimes I'll find escape by making up some crazy story. I'm becoming more disciplined at committing to writing one. Also committing to finishing. I'm no good at finishing anything I start. So I'm getting better. Rather, I'm getting better and ending it when i become discouraged or tired of it. Perhaps that's all it needs. Perhaps my stories and poems and tales and pros and verbal vomits are only supposed to be as long as I need them to be. But instead of half-assing them and never finishing, I learn how to properly end them as my need ends. Which I've gotten better at. 

            Same for music and my songs. I'll write throwaways and make deliberately messy and weird and off-color songs that are SO obviously THAT, that I can get away with it. It's obvious I'm not trying in certain songs, so I get away with NOT putting effort in. Which also bolsters the material I DO put a lot of effort into. It works out in my favor, or so I'm spinning it. I'm a politician what can I say. Buttering myself up. I'm not ashamed, shit. If it's what keeps me alive and waking up in the morning then so-be-it. Nobody else sure as hell ain't gonna do it.

right?

My sister is getting married. 

             I am happy for her. But selfishly, it makes me sad as well. Depressed truly. 

          She is 24. I am about to be 26. (we're in the 2 months of overlap right now) I'm 2 years older. She is getting married at 24, to a guy she has been seeing for 5 years now. Perhaps 6. Getting married, two years younger, and in a wonderful relationship that has lasted longer than any relationship I've ever had. Perhaps longer than all of them combined if I think hard. 

        I'm not jealous. They are great friends and he is a wonderful person. But envious perhaps? Not even that. I know whatever is in the cards for me will come whatever the case. I'm not looking to rush into something that isn't right per say. But in terms of togetherness, she's eons and miles ahead. 

                Everyone I work with is relatively in their early thirties or late twenties and married. Newly married, most of them. Well, they're also salaried too. I discovered today. i suspected it, but wasn't sure. Which actually puts me at ease oddly enough. It makes me okay with being the odd man out in this crew. I totally do not belong. They are very accepting and open to their credit. But this is not my world. By a long shot. i can adapt, sure. But it's not where I truly fit in. I find myself faking it. Pretending to be comfortably integrated into this world. 

                  They're also seemingly comfortable as a fitting piece of the societal puzzle. A puzzle that is slowly crumbling, but healthy and strong in a lot of people's hearts as well. That being the mentality that everyone needs to figure themselves out and get married and find a person by their mid-twenties. Have a career beginning/middle/ending job by then. Get married at 27. Get a house a year or so later. Have a kid, a few. Usually 2. Move into a bigger home. Live that way until the kids are out and take more time off. Buy an RV. Have a mid-life crisis, get prescribed an anti-depressant and cholesterol pills and that's that into retirement. Perhaps a boat. 

               That's not me. I wasn't meant for that world. Parts of it intrigue me, but I'd be miserable. A long-lasting relationship would be very nice. I want that. But it wouldn't be entirely traditional. Asking someone to be a part of that is a lot to ask for. So it's going to take a very open kind of person. A non-traditionalist at best. Someone of the same nature. I would like to go on their adventure as much as I'd want them to be willing to go on mine. 

            Well now I'm on a tangent. But back to form, as happy as I am for my sister, who yes, is ahead of the social-norm of the social standards as she's looking at buying a house as well, there is a touch of sadness as well. More than a touch. I have been chipping at this topic for the last few weeks. I feel like I have missed the boat. I am broken. I am damaged goods. 

            Also that reminds me, as I sit here at work writing this. Someone once told me that they were damaged goods and it was best I jumped off that boat while it was sinking. Something to that affect. But yet, they've all begun new relationships. All of them, come to think of it. I've been told that twice now. 

                I won't worry though, so I am told not to do. Because as the old cliche goes, 

       It's not me, it's them. Right?

the future

When do we stop becoming the future? 

                 All our adolescence we're told "YOU are the FUTURE! All of you guys are the future!" All our lives in grammar school, middle school, high school, even college. But when does it stop? I'll tell you.

        It stops the second you begin thinking, "When do we stop being the future?" The second you begin being conscious of that, you're fucked. 

FUCK WISCONSIN

"I'm not sure I want to be here." She said from the couch. 

             Abbey didn't mean here as in the apartment. As in the city. The town. The job. 

    "You know, I've been here two years and I like the people I work with, and the work is okay. But I don't think it's what I want to do the rest of my life you know?" 

        "Oh I know all too well. I mean, it's certainly not what I want to be doing forever. I want to explore some more. But I definitely fell into it and it's good for me for the time being. But once things settle down I'll get restless again. I haven't been to the doctor in years, the dentist or had an eye exam the same way, so to have benefits is ace right now. So I'll use them and get back on my feet a while and stay long enough to warrant leaving without any bad blood, a year...ish before I begin seriously making plans. Then do it. Leave. It all, to explore." I responded.

         "That sounds pretty good." She took a sip. She was drinking vodka and cranberry. Her second. She was cozy now. Warm on the inside. She was curled up, practically part of the couch. A big knit-type sweater on that she could get her knees into. She had funky fuzzy socks on. Her boots by the door. Paintings from friends covering the walls. The TV was off but a playlist was playing over the speakers. It was a night together and we got into a rhythm and habit of deep conversation. There was a silence for reflection.

           "Fuck this place!" She blurted and laughed out loud. Humoring the situation. I laughed with her. "It makes no sense to settle yet, especially if you haven't done what you want yet or explored everywhere you know?" I added. "So true. I want to see Kansas! For fuck sake."

      "Kansas huh?" I think I got you all wrong. She laughed again. "Fuck Kansas too." She said. 

             "Yes. Fuck Kansas. Might as well add Arkansas and Alabama to that list too." 

     "YES. Bermuda too. Fuck Bermuda. The cape, Miami, shit, Florida as a whole." She said. We were on a roll. 

            "YES I HATE FLORIDA. How about Wisconsin?" I asked. "Don't phrase it as a question, commit! FUCK WISCONSIN!" She raised her plastic cup in the air. "YEA FUCK WISCONSIN!" We began yelling it. All of them in random sequence the both of us.  

          "FUCK FLORIDA. FUCK KANSAS. FUCK MICHIGAN. FUCK NORTH DAKOTA. FUCK OREGON. FUCK GEORGIA. FUCK THE CAPE. FUCK ALABAMA. FUCK NEW MEXICO."

               It went all night.

I don't have the answers, 

                     I never fucking did. I never ever ever ever ever ever ever had the damn answers.

 I'm coming off a drunk and I can't even call it that. I tried but I never made it. So whatever that is I'm coming down. 

        I never had the answers and all I wanted was to figure them out for you. I'm not even that drunk. In hindsight later this will seem as if I am.

            But I am not. 

                            The scary bits of me come out when I am sober. 

                                                 The strangest parts come out when I'm straight.

                   Trust me on this. I can show you songs I did that are immensely odd and fucked up and I was as sober as a grandmother. I can tell you which tunes I did drunk and which are sober. To tell you the truth if it's up and it's a complete tune with more than one verse and chorus, it's probably sober.

                           I don't have the answers and I never fucking did and really, 

             I never ever will. I don't even want them anymore. Fuck the answers. They never did anyone any good. Chasing them have been a nightmare. I am done not sleeping at night.

                  Let me sleep. 

but me

I gave it all away. 

                    I sold my amp. I've sold my piano. I've sold and traded many a guitar.

            I gave away my camera, I given away souvenirs from places I'll never go again. 

                                   I sold microphones, stands, speakers, mixers, soundproofing, desks, tables, cables, cases, everything.

          I've given away about anything worth a damn I've ever had.

                                                 Now everybody has a piece of me
                                    but me.