There was nothing in my sleep.
Not even a blonde. I know for a fact that I will never see her again. But wouldn't it be great if I did? What would I say to her? If she got what she wanted, and that would be to get out of Manhattan, then she's really gone. If she was really a part of me, maybe she wanted ME out of Manhattan? Have you ever thought of that? Possibly something in me wants help to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I get up and take a shower. A nice long one where I can scrub the shit out of myself. Now, nicely cleaned, I make up the stupid bed, put away the clothes, dress for the day, all before the lights come on. What I don't do is my exercise. I'm putting it off until next week. Then I promise myself I'll get up early like I have done today and get on the exercise boat.
I had a meeting with my social worker who had me sign some forms for housing. DO NOT BE FOOLED. I'm always signing forms for housing. This set is no different. He didn't seem his jovial self though. He handed me a box, to which I opened to find the harddrive cradle for my laptop. Now I'll be able to put the secondary drive into my baby and be done with it. I'm happy. Now to get the tools for the job. These fuck ups took my toolkit as contraband during the last sweep. I asked my social worker about retrieving it, and all he could tell me is that he'll ask his superiors. Can't you do anything on your own buddy? I guess the hierarchy reaches up here too.
I head over to Dr. A's office and meet up with one of his scariest clients. Ms. H. She reminds me of Jabba the Hut. She has the same body and no neck just like him. She's all face and shoulders. And because of this, she has a perpetual bad attitude. I like to spend as little time around her as humanly possible. I like it on a day that I don't have to be bothered with her.
I scoot past her into the examination room and get my blood pressure checked. It's doing good. Also I get corrected. Don't I always? The doctor does not want me to take cod liver oil, but instead Omega 3 fish oil, daily, along with heavy doses of vitamin D. I tell him that I will. And then I get my 'scripts from him. Now I got all of my meds covered. I'm good to go.
I head to the nearest Duane Reade and buy up everything that I a growing boy needs. Sardines, vitamins, Slim Jims. The whole nine yards. Then I buy a screwdriver set to install the hard drive into my baby. When I get to the library I get to work. Everything goes as planned, but upon boot up I get a media failure. Check cable. The problem here is that there is no cable. It's a direct Bus connection to the system. Something must be wrong inside of my baby. Probably when I sent it in for repairs to the backlighting, they did something to an internal cable to mess things up. Whatever the case, I can't install a secondary drive. I feel like cracking open my baby and have a look see for myself, but I have a great deal of respect for breaking down laptops because they can be as hard as the devil to put back together again.
I had to return it to the external case which worked like a dream, so I know that there is nothing the matter with the hard drive. I'll have to dwell on the problem a little before I do something risky. I can't hurt my baby on something that I can only guess from here that's the problem. Although I'm pretty good at guesses like these.
To drown my sorrows, I play 2142 in earnest. I'm just scant points away from getting a promotion, so I play like a mother- fucker. I'm mean and harsh and vicious, tearing up ass. I hand grenade a position of the enemy, sending bodies flying, shoot fuckers in the back and the head, steal flags and stomp on people with the walker. Yeah, I become brutal to get that promotion, and do you know what happens? The fucking system seizes. It hangs on me as I'm about to lay out an automated machine gun. It stops when I'm only THREE POINTS AWAY.
Fuck it. I walk away. I try to watch a CD...Mr. And Ms. Smith, with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and it won't play. What kind of day am I having here?? I try to write but I get drowsy. My thoughts don't actually come together although I do finish my article for next week. I gave myself some time before reviewing it an attempt to catch as many mistakes as possible. That's the real rub. To give myself enough time so that I forget what I had written, and therefore read what I've wrote. Sounds funny, but it helps in the editing process.
Then I get a personal email that reads: "Hey Hobo Bob, I'm hooked on your blog- it's great. I love the photographs too." Wow did that make my day. It really did. I feel like I'm talking to people when I sit down and write this swill. I'm not crazy. Well I see people, and hear things. And I have an alcohol addiction and an Oedipus complex, and I run around naked in the dark and like to punch holes in my tongue with a conductor's punch. But other than that, I'm a normal guy.I tire of Starbucks, so I go to Duane Reade to get my hands on some San Pellegrino water. Five bottles, and then I head for the Box.
Oh the night's not over yet. There are more surprises for me.
It's so much fun to be in the Box.
Hobobob
Source URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/10/struggle-to-finish.html
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