Decided I needed to resume doing this because I'm paying for it. So here we go.
Been hit by cars more than I should think healthy. Like four, five times. Walked away from each. Well, four out of five of them. Still, pretty good odds. That outlier, hobbled a bit, got some great morphine, experienced a county hospital. So, not a total loss. Probably should reconsider the amount of time I spend on my bike. But, in all likelihood, I'll lean more to staying on two wheels than giving up. Statistically, accident numbers are low for the length I'm on the saddle. I feel free zipping through the city. I feel liberated. I feel fine. Of course, ask me when I get hit again. Whatever. I wear a helmet and observe road rules 99% of the time.
Just had a kid. And I just drank cold coffee when expecting hot coffee. Today is a day full of excitement. As for the fruit of my loins, I can't wait to see how his mustache fills in. If he's like me, he'll be able to grow one before he'll learn to speak—we Gallaghers are infamous for our mustache-thriving abilities. Oh to a glorious future.
Can't believe it took me over a month to update my blog. Update: About to have a kid; about to finish a novel I started at the beginning of the year; about to get a job (I think); about to start a community art project (I think). Things are shaping up. I should get another cat just to round out the awesomeness. Go 2015.
Oh shit, it's NYE and I haven't completed my resolution for 2014. I guess I'll pay it forward to 2015 and eventually learn how to program a VCR.
One of these days, the robots will revolt. Probably due to a programming error. Thankfully, I have Old Glory Robot Insurance—it'll protect me for a bit, or until they require my innards for their processing factories.
I've come to realize that the fear of boredom is unfounded. People should embrace boredom—it's freedom; you've completed your tasks and now, you've got an open slate. Fill it with whatever you want. I see boredom as a challenge: I find that one thing that I've put aside and I get to work. If that's nothing, then, very well, I do nothing. Unrestrained, uninhibited time should be a daily goal. Everyone should set aside blocks of boredom throughout life—you're given carte blanche with creativity. Personally, I think people fear boredom because they aren't interesting enough or have enough imagination to take the nothing and make it into the something.
If I had to worship at the alter of anything, I'd kindly bow down to the Java bean. I don't have much more to say about that. I love coffee. Without it, I think I'd go insane. Take it from me and you best prepare for a fight.
If I had a pet dinosaur, if there were such things, I would call it Thelonious Rex and teach it to play jazz because jazz never dies. And a pet dinosaur named Thelonious Rex playing jazz would be cool as ice.
Homer Simpson was right: "What's the point of going out? We're just gonna wind up back here anyway." Go have your fun, I'll keep the couch warm. Also, it recently dawned on me that the United States has been at war with the Middle East for two-thirds of my life. Bummer.
Today is Sunday. Today, this day sucks. Tomorrow is the work week—resume slowly slugging that boulder up the hill. Whatever. When I look at this picture, all the Sisyphean hoopla fades into the background because this picture represents everything that is great in the world. Screw culture. Screw the chains of society. Screw the norms. This girl is defiance. This girl is freedom. This girl is punk rock. This girl is totally radical Muslim. I hope that instead of oppressing this girl's attitude, this girl's future, someone out there is giving her a high-five and telling her to keep practicing her flat-ground ollies.
This man died on the toilet. He died this way because the dozens of drugs he ate like candy made him dreadfully constipated. This, combined with the element that the man was monstrously obese, put a strain on his heart as he tried to pass his granite stool—his ticker figuratively exploded as he overextended his worn system to take a dump. Or, in other words, it means that the shit really got to him and knocked him on his ass. I only bring this up to segue into the fact that one of the EMT's to treat the King's corpse was named Ulysses, which my girlfriend and I are going to name our first-born son. This EMT later became a member of the U.S. House of Representatives from Tennessee, who, flash-forward a few years, was convicted of taking a bribe. While this is not the genesis for the baby's moniker, I will now be adopting it for future reference. So, in a roundabout way, Elvis kicking it on the commode is why my son is named Ulysses.
A few days ago, a well-to-do older lady got on the elevator with me. She farted. It smelled like cooked broccoli water filtered through a homeless man's soiled underwear. I was wearing headphones so this professional odor sneaked up on me and weakened me at the knees. Soon the entire elevator reeked of a high-grade foulness that scientists in a specialized lab couldn't reproduce. The only consolation was that she knew that I knew that she farted. We lived with her shame for the few floors we shared in the elevator. I exited and a new victim entered the soiled confinement, so I knew the olfactory offensive would have confirmation. The pic relates to the face I saw as the elevator doors closed.
When the doldrums of Monday hit me, I sit back and pretend I'm a starfish biding my time on the seafloor, waiting for my next meal to arrive so I can throw my stomach at it. Then, after that daydream washes over me, all that beginning-of-the-week melancholy evaporates.
This wasn't a hard conclusion to reach, but I determined it nonetheless: I don't think I would have enjoyed living in Moscow at the height of the U.S.S.R. Mostly because everyone ratted on everyone else. It would have been exhausting determining who to trust. That being said, just to fit in, I would have informed on my neighbor's dog if it barked too much, or if it got better rations than I did. Or, if it got me higher in the Party. Or, if I were bored. I guess it would be pretty easy to be an informant. Just make something up on anyone and watch the fun happen.
There's a rooster that crows every morning somewhere close to my apartment. It's cool that people keep farm animals in my neighborhood, but this bastard doesn't adhere to any sort of schedule. Sometimes, he starts cock-a-doodling at the break of dawn; sometimes, he's hollering across the area at the gray of dawn. Sometimes, just sometimes, he's loudly clucking in the middle of the afternoon. No consistency. Mostly, I think the infernal creature wants to start shit, and he's calling out to would-be adversaries. The pic above relates to how I imagine the rooster taunts. Granted, this might not totally represent reality.
I wish more things were celebrated with cupcakes. Like starting the day. Or starting your first blog. I guess I'm going to treat myself to a cupcake.