Insecurity
23 January 1999
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Insecurity
23 January 1999
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There's this tiny fake-looking bird, a round puffy looking thing, tan with a black head. It's sitting on a branch of the pine tree outside my window here. Not a big bird, but not a very big branch either. And the branch is being blown all over the place in the wind, up down, left right diagonal, and the bird is just clinging to it, moving its head around jerkily trying to look in all directions in once, like, "hey hey hey HEY! uh oh". I have a deep sympathy for its situation.
I woke up today sure that I had mail from someone I know of through the net, but don't actually know, replying to a really soppy email that I had sent to someone else - I thought. "Hey hey, cowboy, don't cry! Maybe you should get a pet or something. And remember not to do a 'reply-all' without checking!" Must I add that this is an actually existing, very attractive someone? Very embarassing.
Fortunately, it wasn't true. Made me wonder, though. Do any of the girls I used to date ever dream about me? Seems hard to imagine. Maybe I'm creating some kind of dream imbalance, and it'll open a vortex into another reality and I'll be sucked into it and have to fight the forces of Hell. Or maybe I should just stop watching these Buffy tapes when I'm drunk.
Today's agenda: nothing. Praise the Lord. Bookworm time. I don't need much out of life, really. Tea, milk, burritos, cigarettes, beer, books. Radio or the equivalent. If I keep practicing here long enough, maybe I can pull off my endgame career strategy and get a job as a columnist. Call it "That Crabby Guy!" I could do something like that for a long time. Hey, the Midnight Cabbie* gets paid, why not me?
* Sorry, in-joke for San Francisco Examiner readers there.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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