The reason for the Season.
I just want to note right now, that I am high as fucking giraffe pussy, straight posted at the coffee shop I frequent almost daily during the work week. I did this because that is the shop I am most comfortable with and well, being this ripped and at a new place would trip me up. I mean this place will as well because… well I don’t have a fucking excuse. When I go out and interact with people, it’s like a new ball game every time. It feels like a place that is brand new. Of course it feels brand new right now because I have more than efficiently severed the connection between my short term and long term memory, thus everything is brand new, thanks to the half of the retardedly strong ganja cookie I ingested about an hour ago. I feel like my dog. I want to watch everything going on and I want to hear what people are talking about. But I figure it’s a few things they talk about; school related, work related, money related, pussy related, god related. Haha! Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. Looking someone in the eyes seems a heinous crime sometimes. But it’s a comfort zone rupture I am going for so just sitting out here in this heat in the shade with an iced coffee and a slight hangover, David Hasslehoof ripped, is a fucking ordeal. Next time I will post up in a new coffee shop and not be as fucking high.
Truth is, I figured it might be a good time to post up at my local joint and actually get to chill outside for a change. I am always, 5 days a week, boxed up in a closet outside a closet. No gateway to Narnia, no stargate tower. I used to believe in the boogeyman. He had a white horse nose that came to a point. His face looked like a stretched joker from Tim Burton’s Batman. Jack Nicholson. He had hoofed feet, white fur, and he wore a purple blazer. He used to freak me the fuck out, but he really looked like the boogey man off the 80’s Ghostbuster cartoon “The Real Ghostbusters.” I was terrified that he would come out of my closet when I was asleep. His lair was one crazy Alice in Wonderland through the rabbit hole nonsense and the walls were covered with doors that opened to bedroom closets. His whole purpose was to terrorize children because he fed off their fear. I’m sure I gave him a good meal or two. I would line up the stuffed animals I had to stand guard. But they weren’t only standing guard against the boogey man. They were standing guard against the possibility of creatures of netherfield searching through the portal underneath my bed. I was just that tasty and yes, I had stuffed animals. I named them. I still have one that I was given when I was just one, I guess. I named him Doggie.
I remember one night I was sleeping and the boogey man came out of the closet, because that’s where you get to his world. His world was animated too. If I wanted to make my dream even more terrifying, I would apply today’s special effects. It would be an animated character, but he would have an electrostatic aura about him. He would glitch in and out quickly like a television antennae coming into focus. Or it would be the visual equivalent of a cd skipping, only he’d be moving forward. All cartoon on reality. Like when the chick came out of the television on the ring. At any rate, I was dreaming under the covers asleep on my pillow. Mister Boogey came out grabbed me by my hands and started dragging me to his lair. I felt my lip being dragged against my bed sheets. When I woke up I was completely opposite my original sleeping position. I was on my stomach, on top of the covers with my feet where my head was supposed to be. True story.
An ass just walked by so nice that it made me want a cigarette. I don’t understand the correlation. However I cannot have a cigarette right here, because this joint doesn’t allow smoking on it’s porch, plus there’s a dude and his daughter chomping it up right next to me. I hate smoking around kids, I won’t do it. Just get away from me. Sometimes I find myself in a situation where I will be doing my damnedest to get out of some area, away from anyone under 18, to have a fucking smoke and lo-and behold, there I am with some droolbucket huffing my second hand destruction. That’s something I hate.
I was thinking about things I hate and I couldn’t come up with much. Even the lady who hassled the land manager to get my moving truck out of her parking spot when I moved into this joint and he turned to me when she left and said, “She ain’t got a car right now.” Nice. I don’t hate her either. She’s getting a 30 day notice for being a crazy bitch. Apparently, she has super sensitive hearing, I’m sure there’s a word for that, hearing that only mutes out her own voice and actions. Her intolerance of my neighbors slight music making, in the afternoon, offends her so much, she has to throw a tantrum the equivalent of a tiny child that has teeth coming in. Just pissed the fuck off. I don’t hate her, she’s just a racist.
I hate bad dog owners. That shit grinds my gears like no other.
Pictures of little kids. Save them for someone who cares.
That feeling when you sit down to show someone a song, riff, or something, and they immediately tune out and don’t listen. I hate that feeling. (Also, I am inherently guilty of the doing the same thing.)
I definitely need to explore more coffee shops around here. This place has no talent. Funny though, as I say that, someone who belongs in the “Coffee Shop Caf-fiend Chronicles” the High Duchess of Falootingtonshire, here for a serving of the queen’s royal pudding, who is a mind reader, or something, shows up, tea in hand, pinky finger extended. She seems like a talented individual. She definitely believes she has an audience. One day she said the name of someone I was thinking about right as I was thinking about it. Tripped me up for a second, then she explained I looked like some guy who had that name. Not me.
High as goddamn giraffe pussy. Retarded son.
The High Duchess of Falootingtonshire is lecturing her servants, or parishioners or giving a historical account of the courts back in her hometown.
And I just sat here for about 10 minutes not writing a goddamn thing. Time to walk the dog.