|The Blog|| |
|"I Got A Perm"|
posted July 20, 2006 @11:05p
I stopped by a business today. I was there for a bit, took care of what I needed, then made my way towards the door to leave. I opened the door and stepped right into a utility closet. After I stopped freaking out, I just backed away slowly, looked around, and chose another. That worked.
In the parking lot, I made my way to the car, pulled the key out of my pocket. I started to unlock the door, then realized it wasn't my car. I just backed away slowly, looked around, and chose another. That worked.
This type of thing is an everyday occurrence.
Yesterday, for lunch, I had popcorn. I had popcorn, with greasy butter poured all over it, and a side of white cheddar cheese dust - a quarter cup of white cheddar cheese dust, might I add - and some soda.
For dinner, I went a little more fancy. I toasted Hot-Tamale stuffed marshmallows over a vanilla-scented Glade candle in my kitchen. Let me just tell you, there's nothing as good as a blackened, cinnamon-stuffed marshmallow with an ever-so-slight hint of vanilla.
My diet is a five-year-old's dream diet.
And I make non-culinary-type choices, too, then... once I tell somebody about them, I realize how absurd they must seem to others.
For instance, the music to my latest song, "Off You Go," was written in Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia and Virginia. In a car. On the interstate. Playing the guitar. While driving. Honestly, I've done that as long as I've been behind the wheel. But each time I've told somebody where that song was written, I get a strange look, then they turn their head sideways and stare at me. Like a puppy.
But the absurdity doesn't stop with culinary and life choices. I also have hang-ups about doing standard, everyday things.
Example: those of you who've ever tried to shake my hand - you know what happens. You get the team handshake of Nacho and Esqueleto from "Nacho Libre," the one they share after they strike their deal, just before they drive away on the scooter-shopping-cartmobile. It's more of a medieval, forearm clutch than a handshake. And - you only get that shake if you're lucky. I may shake your shoulder, your elbow, or even grab you by your head and shake it.
I don't know why.
As I write this, I sit here in my boxers, flip-flops and a fishing hat. It's 2am.
My life is some kind of absurd-special-make-believe wonderland.
I wonder if I'll ever stop being spacey, if I'll ever grow up, if I'll ever be responsible, or ever make good choices...
I guess I'll just have to be patient and see what happens. As my grandfather used to say, "always be patient. Patience is a... HEEEY!- where's my cigarettes?"
I'm craving marshmallows.
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