It's Just One of Those Days, Folks
This is what happens when a person foolishly gets 8 hours of sleep on a week night. I'm all awake and keenly aware of things, such as other people and their breathing. Added bonus: "Rico Suave" is on a loop in my head. Maybe there are worse things, maybe not.
Walking to the flatiron this morning, my triumphant egg and cheese and a large coffee in hand (triumphant because I get preferential treatment from my beloved Chilo who cooks my egg and cheese ahead of the wearing-thin charms [read: charmless] of the construction workers who shove their way to the head of the line with their lists of endless breakfast sandwiches, bagels, and other demands with barely a glance at the person who was [ahem] already standing there politely waiting her turn), I was noticing the humanity as it streamed past, and could not help but see the Obligatory Man Talking to Himself shuffling along the side of the building. He was an elder with strangely voluminous khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, holding a coffee and having a chat with whatever ghost was happening to haunt him this morning. And I thought to myself: That will be me one day. Probably next week.
So I guess I am at the stage where I feel hopelessly alone and forever adrift in an ocean of blah blah blah. YAY! Chicken poop.
Speaking of, I was clicking around the fourfour blog (you find that you can link forevermore, finding more and more interesting and imaginative blogs that, say, the one you are reading right now, should you find the time) and found one that I really liked. I knew I liked her for some reason other than the fact that the woman can WRITE, and lo and behold, Chickens. Also, a fantastic blog name.
Walking to the flatiron this morning, my triumphant egg and cheese and a large coffee in hand (triumphant because I get preferential treatment from my beloved Chilo who cooks my egg and cheese ahead of the wearing-thin charms [read: charmless] of the construction workers who shove their way to the head of the line with their lists of endless breakfast sandwiches, bagels, and other demands with barely a glance at the person who was [ahem] already standing there politely waiting her turn), I was noticing the humanity as it streamed past, and could not help but see the Obligatory Man Talking to Himself shuffling along the side of the building. He was an elder with strangely voluminous khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, holding a coffee and having a chat with whatever ghost was happening to haunt him this morning. And I thought to myself: That will be me one day. Probably next week.
So I guess I am at the stage where I feel hopelessly alone and forever adrift in an ocean of blah blah blah. YAY! Chicken poop.
Speaking of, I was clicking around the fourfour blog (you find that you can link forevermore, finding more and more interesting and imaginative blogs that, say, the one you are reading right now, should you find the time) and found one that I really liked. I knew I liked her for some reason other than the fact that the woman can WRITE, and lo and behold, Chickens. Also, a fantastic blog name.
posted by Shiny at 10:41 AM
1 Comments:
The next time I visit the Big City will I have to come to the streets looking for my Beloved? Will I go looking only to find you hunkered over a trashcan, looking for leftover lunch morsels and singing Neil Diamond songs to yourself?
Sincerest of sentimentements,
Anonymous the Younger
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