First off, most of the stuff was items I came across and just kind of liked. Secondly, most of my blogging these days revolving around, you know, my "personal life" is done over at my MySpace, which can be found over here (if you'd like to read those, I believe you need to be added as a friend first—which isn't much of a hurdle when you consider that roughly half of my "friends" are bands, celebrities or porn stars).
Anyway, I'm (again) trying to get back into the habit of posting here once a week, so fully expect completely random journal entries which may or may not be:
- True
- About me
- Entertaining
- Relevant to anything, really
I decided last night when going through my journal while getting drunk with the ex that a lot of the stuff I had originally written when first starting this journal was not exactly sworn to secrecy.
Here's your first example:
"Journal Entry 1.3"
I spent the better part of my morning engulfed in a truly compassionate conversation with absolutely nobody. Now, I'm not crazy or on too many drugs; I simply get this way when I happen to misplace my keys.
Asking the walls questions they could not possibly answer, promising the microwave what I'll do when I find what I'm looking for, reminding the mirror that this is not a laughing matter. You'd be surprised how the question of "Who the fuck are you even talking to?" never comes up. Not even once.
Undoubtedly, if these inanimate objects could suddenly lend advice during this most recent production of "Derek's Disgruntled Theatre," the words would be less than helpful and only infuriate me further.
"Well, where's the last place you left them?" the refrigerator might ask.
"Are you sure they're not in the car?" my bed would add.
"I thought you had them a second ago," the sofa could observe.
In the reckless path of destruction left behind from my search, I'll usually make note of anywhere between seven and seven hundred different things I need to consider doing ... immediately—after I find my keys, of course.
Oddly enough, when I finally do discover that I had absentmindedly failed to check the pockets of the jeans I had been wearing the previous night, I can't think of what to do next.
Perhaps it was an hour, or maybe it was two. The entire span of time was intensely focused on one thing, yet I have effectively managed to convince myself that my life is completely out of order and the dam is going to burst very soon. Now with my keys, you'd think I'd get cracking.
I also retrieved a phone number from the same pocket I had found my keys in. She had sounded sincere when she gave it to me, so maybe this time I won't inexplicably be speaking to the sixteen-year-old kid who happened to answer the phone at the local McDonald's. "Naw, there ain't no Gina workin' here I know of."
Yeah, I didn't think there would be.
I could call her now, see if the digits, you know, "check out." Knowing my luck, she'll probably be in the middle of doing something. "Argh," she'd groan. "I'm sorry, it's just that I can't find my goddam house keys."
At that point, knowing how little I could help and how very much I could only make things worse, I'd simply say, "I guess I'll let you go."
Sometimes it's best just to figure those things out for yourself.
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