I blew off Dr. A. today.
I didn't mean to do it. It wasn't done intent- ionally. I just get up early this morning and didn't feel like spending my entire day in Starbucks. Which is my final resting place after my fifteen minute checkup. I just couldn't go down and sit there all day, watching the hustle and bustle of the city head on. So I e-mailed Doc A. to ask him if he would be so kind as to reschedule me for a later hour. That way I could skip the mad hurry to sit in a coffee shop all day. He never responded to me. I waited all day for his email to come back. He's usually very prompt with his emails, but not today. There was nothing, so I stayed at home on mIRC.
Awww, don't come down on me now. Would you rather I sit in a small coffee shop around yammering patrons sitting all around you, sucking up the same air as you, vacating the building of oxygen, causing you to choke and sputter after awhile? Fuck that. I would rather sit in the comfortable coolness of my apartment, on line. on mIRC. Tell me about it. Which would you prefer? I'll give you ten guesses.
I'm tired of the hustle and bustle up close, all day long. I get dressed and head downstairs for breakfast and lunch and it went pretty smoothly. In - out, like ducks fucking. Effortless. It even surprised me. I head back upstairs and get behind the laptop as soon as I put everything in the fridge. I get busy. I plumb the depths of the human experience. I question our reason for living. I question the value of the entire human race. It seems sad that we are running around, being chased by a clock everywhere. We run from here to there to there, the job, the home, the car, the party, the friends house. There's no time....no time to stop and absorb each other.
We have made NO TIME to get to know each other. We have no compunction to go around to our neighbors with a cup of sugar anymore, and get involved in each others lives. We have no time to care about each other. WE have no time to stop and smell the roses. You can say what you want about mIRC and IRC, but the truth of the matter is is that it allows you to take the time to STOP and get to know your neighbor, your fellow human on a level that defies distance, and space. It brings us together in a way that is beyond belief.
We scurry like ants, and time still slips past us. Time's always running. Time does not stop to eat, to sleep, to take a lunch or coffee break. It runs as if it itself is running out of time. As the White Rabbit said in Alice in Wonderland, time waits for no man. This is true. And that's one reason why I feel it's time for me to stop fucking around. I'm constantly doing silly shit. I can't help it. I'm silly. I'm a writer, but I'm not writing. Well, I'm not writing anything that means anything. I am typing reams of text, reams, and yet it has no real value. As was recently told me: "No one makes money off IRC." And she could possibly be right. IRC can or could be a total waste of time for me.
But then I think, I have a few other endeavors that could be considered the same. I have a number of projects that the odds are stacked against me. STACKED. I'm struggling against the tide, facing the insurmountable obstacle, the hordes of the enemy or defying the vertical of a sheer rock face. I am that climber, moving forward, hands reaching and questing for any out-cropping or crack within reach to employ the fingers so as to sustain the weight of my body. I am scaling rock, granite, rugged and cracked by, you guessed it, Time. Always fighting against time, against something. My life is a fucking struggle, every single goddamn day.
Oh, you got it good: Kwit yer bitchin. The fuck I do! If anyone feels that way...if anyone has fooled themselves of that because of my sunny disposition, I'll gladly switch lives with them. I'm not saying that I'm the most worse off man on the planet. I still have relatively good health going for me. So, for all of you sickly ones out there that are saying: "Shit, motherfucker, I'll switch with you any day!" I exclude you from my challenge. I thank god, my genes, my diet, blind fucking chance, for my health, because that's the only thing I got going for me.
For all of you out there with relatively good health that thinks my life is easy and that I am shiftless and lazy. Here, come switch with me. Come and trade into this Life of Reilly. I'd gladly work that job you're bitchen about. I'd gladly live in that house that needs so much fixing, drive that shitty car in your garage, I'd gratefully fuck that harpy in your bed, or that crazy ass woman you're dating. I'll gladly watch over those irritating youngsters that drive you up the wall. Yeah. I'd switch in a heartbeat. Make that shit happen.
I can't seem to lay my hands on anything that I want. All of my wants are conveniently placed out of reach, impossible to get to. I fall down at the knees of my altar, rest my head on its cold, hard lap and feel despair. I only have one thing that I want. One thing that I desire that makes all the rest of my wants pale in comparison. Forgive me if I don't tell you because I'm superstitious, and talking about it might jinx it. As you can see, I'm trying to employ every device, every arcane measure to succeed. I'm struggling to succeed. I must have this cynosure. I must posses it at all costs. I'll gladly give up the rest of my life for it. Wipe out everything that I built up to this very day. Take the clothes off my back, and the drawers off my ass.
I'm fighting. My foes are legion, and my greatest foe is time. This motherfucker is hauling ass so hard I'm not even considered competition by him. I'm on the track, but I don't want to grow old fighting. I want to win some. I want to come out ahead some. I want A life back and not live this life of splendid leisure. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of not having money, of not living in a home, of hand-me-down clothes, and weak sandwiches. I would like to go out and pay for dinner, see a show, have a motherfucking suit, get the motherfucking girl.
Time is racing me. He's already on the goddamned track. He's going to beat me, he's going to beat you...you know this. But why let the bastid know that. Make a little time to know your neighbor, become a good one yourself. THEN blast the fuck out of the door. Hell, that's what I'm planning to do.I'm putting on my track shoes.
HobobobSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2009/05/chase-time-slowpoke.html
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