A Day Of One’s Own

No one today. My brain is off since I actually have a day away from the grind. Trust me, when I finish writing, it’s going back off.

I think I remember once one of the first times I had seen a plane ticket, my mind had boggled at having admittance to the sky. I must’ve been quite young, I suppose. But it was unlike any ticket I had ever seen, much larger and with so much information I could never comprehend. I had undertaken some sort of classification system in my mind, and tried to find some pattern amongst them and what they allowed access to for determining their shape. The perforated edge I dared not handle, lest it should rip and become invalid. Now, I have at least one in my pile of mail and I don’t even want to look at it. The letter can stay sealed for all I care. I should be studying up, but this is my second day off in a month.

What’s awful is I remember when that didn’t seem so bad. Jesus Christ I need to change careers.

I’ve looked for patterns in the imperfections on my living room wall for about two hours now, and seen ways to trace an unbroken line from the top left corner to the bottom right and been keeping Sigur Ros’ Takk… on repeat while I did it. I actually got up after this and tried to trace it. The pen couldn’t go over any of the little mounds and couldn’t scale the plateaus where it’s fairly smooth. When in doubt, sea level was determined by what was lowest in the area, say, of 30 square centimeters. I wasn’t allowed to go over a previously established line or veer more than 45 degrees in either direction. This is actually a lot easier than it sounds, hence all the rules. I made it most of the way, but there’s a large belt of valleys that were impassable, and it required about six tracks of the CD to rework it to the point that I was able to bypass the range and get to the other corner, though naturally, there’s a ridge just in the corner making true success impossible. I don’t think I’ve used a protractor since middle school, though. You know, now I have a giant goddamned line across my living room wall, and I just don’t care.

If it was raining today, I could sit in front of my window with hot chocolate and watch it. Instead, reflexively, I check my phone every few minutes to see if I missed a call because I set it on silent so I wouldn’t need to worry about it. Then I took a nap in the middle of the floor, face down. I don’t think I had thought about my carpet in two years without involvement of a stain of some sort. I woke up some hours later in my clothes one track back, which means I had almost gone through a full cycle again. The remote was in reach, and I turned it off, and then put the other side of my face on the carpet and tried to sleep again, but I knew it was no use.

I’ve often thought those that lament the loss of childhood have everything backwards. Having adult responsibilities and regular abilities is the best. It’s the middle of Saturday, and I’m going to get in my car, go rent a movie with a body count comparable to my rent, buy a box of doughnuts, and get a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon and make an evening of it. And I’m going to love it, because that will be my dinner. And tomorrow, I will start feeling guilt for it and reading the case as I go for a five mile jog to work it off. Because it feels good to have balance. But I will have accomplished nothing except to avoid living with myself through the day.

I think Donovan is beginning to suspect my intentions. But if he’s smart, he’ll get as much out of me as he can while I’m there. Donovan’s not stupid.

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