I managed to muster up enough strength and coherence this morning to get my doped-up, ass out of bed. The bleeding has stopped but the pain...oh the sweet, sweet pain, still lingers like the fart you tried to sneak on the first date, while Jane was, "freshening up."
Finally being up and mobile after two days was kind of nice. I was happy to see that other than minor aches and pains, everything else besides the foot of doom, was in working order. I cleaned up as best I could and dressed at a snail's pace. When I finally made it downstairs, I was hungry enough to eat sawdust, so I took the necessary meds and hobbled out the door. For a split second I thought I was going to tumble down the stairs as the good leg whispered it was considering, "going on strike." I thanked it and reassured it that it would be well rewarded for its' consistent, excellent performance.
I drove to the new breakfast spot, Karen's Kitchen™ and managed to make it all the way from the car to the counter without the aid of my cane. I know it's stupid, but at just over thirty, I feel somewhat like an asshole using ambulatory devices. At least with a pair of crutches I can claim, bar-fight or motorcycle accident. Cane implies something more like, "I'm so fucking stupid, I stepped on a dirt-rake, barefoot." Besides, my story, although different, is not much more interesting.
I had my usual and I must say the toast was especially good today. I think its' buttery-ness made up for most of the burnt-shit-rocks, Karen tried to pass off as home fries. The food is always good but the home fries are constantly hit or miss. Even with the slightly better than average food, I go there for the ambiance and the cast of characters who work the place. "The Kitchen" as I will refer to it from now on, is located in a quiet suburb, north of the capitol. It's mostly retirees and tradesman who frequent the kitchen for breakfast. The kitchen is open at 5 am, so those who have a ton on their, "to do" list can have a good meal and then, " git-R-done." before the sun goes down.
I sat down at the counter around nine o' clock. I was greeted with coffee and a warm hello. There is no messing around, you either know what you want to order or you're gonna wait. The staff is very good, but patience is not their strong suit. I woke up with the greasy-spoon coffee as I read the Journal. Apparently, state senate has decided to drop the bill on brothels / prostitution being run as massage parlors here. Local law enforcement officials only feel this will create more problems as current laws regarding prostitution punish street walkers and pimps, not the males soliciting. Law enforcement has petitioned the senate for help so that Rhode Island will not be considered, "even more of a joke and the prostitution capitol of the Northeast."
While enjoying my coffee, paper and western omelette, I picked up on another conversation at the counter. A guy dressed in cover-alls, who I refer to as, "The Super" and a woman, dressed as though she could give two-shits, who I call, "crazy" were talking about various ailments and maladies. I couldn't help but overhear all of the aches & pains and was reminded of the train wreck connected to my right ankle. I was in mid-chew of my second bite of omelette, when I heard this gem, "the summers I had off because of surgery, were some of the happiest of my life."
I had to pinch myself to make sure I was not dreaming. I knew I was not in a pain-killer induced hallucination, because I stopped taking them but, "are you fucking kidding me?" Who thinks like that?! I know some crazy people, into some crazy stuff but that just takes the cake. I wrote down the quote to make sure I wouldn't forget it, finished my breakfast and went on with the daily errands. I ended up going to Target™ to buy some new socks, as my others are now soaked in crimson courage. I'm cool but Curt Schilling, I ain't. I figured since I was in the plaza, I would stop into Barnes & Noble and see if I could pick up some hours at a job where people don't try to kill me.
Apparently people are still not buying books. Why would they when there are so many great things to see in theaters and watch on TV? Pfft! So, I perused the magazine section and looked for ideas for the next tattoo. Still nothing. Everything seems so cliche and the last thing I want to do is get something that reminds me or someone else of a Pabst-Blue Ribbon-swilling, frat boy. I guess I am just going to have to wait for some divine inspiration. Any suggestions?
Finally, now that I have decided on grad school, and making journalism my focus, the only thing left to do is figure out how I am going to pay for, get it, and still be able to work full-time while doing so...any suggestions? Fuck creative writing, I do enough of that every day and the last thing I want to do is stand in front of a class full of spoiled, apathetic, high schoolers who want nothing more than to get fucked up and go to , "rainbow parties." I used to get pissed when I was in my early twenties and older people would comment on how they weep for the future. Take a good fucking look around folks, would you want the majority of these kids in charge of anything?
I know choosing between the Real World and the O.C. is a tough choice but you'll be ok even if no one holds your hand.
ehhh....fuck this! You've been bombarded with enough of my shit today.