I awake in the morning to a correction.
Elvin's name is not Elvin.
Consider my shock when I called him Elvin last night just before bed and he tells me that that's not his name. His name is Smitty. No wonder I couldn't remember his name. It's silly as shit. I shake my head. How the fuck did I get Elvin? I ask him if Elvin is his middle name? No. It isn't. Wow.
Well, in the morning, Smitty is busy getting dressed and putting his shoes on. He makes his bed as I rise woodenly off the mattress and feel the aches in my joints and along my back. This is not familiar and I'm wishing that I had some Advill somewhere. Smitty leaves quickly and I get up and get ready. I hate to be anything but the first soul out of the door. It bothers me. Don't ask me why. My body aches more than normal. I'm not usually like this. I wonder if I'm coming down with something. Either that or the SHOUT OUT is more physically grueling than I think. I don't do any stretching exercises simply because I hurt. Fuck that shit.
I take a shit, flushing often and still stop up the toilet. It amazes me how that happened. What is wrong with the fucking toilet? I go and look for a plunger but can find none. I remembered that in my own home I was one to reach down and up into the drain to free it of anything clogging it. BUT THE FUCK IF I WAS GOING TO DO THAT HERE. I left it for the janitors.
After washing my hands thoroughly I split for the Way and ride up in he cool New York Morning to the Madison Avenue Starbucks. No sooner do I get my baby out and her supportive shit, does my brother come walking in. We sit and I work, and we talk about the SHOUT OUT and a new plan. Something that homeless people do alot is plan. Plan on doing things. Plan on starting things, no matter how outrageous. This is one of our outrageous plans that sound pretty rageous. And I know that that's not a word, it just sounds right.
We talk a lot of shit, like during the times when I was drinking, but no more. It makes me miss my alcoholic highs, something that NALTRAXONE unnaturally removes from me, like removing caffeine from coffee. It just shouldn't be done, under any circumstances. I listen to my brother brainstorming after soaking his brain overnight in the ale, and he makes me jealous. I actually despise sobriety. Now don't get me wrong. I know that you have to stay in the sober world for some part of your life, but the more I'm forced to spend in it, the less I like it. Like I've said a million times in this blog, you have a choice today to be sober or not. You can decide to get high today if you wanted to. If you wanted to go out and get shit faced, you are free to do so. I, on the otherhand, am not. And this removed ability makes me angry. And it's this that I hate. Not so much sobriety, but being forced to be sober irrespective to what others do or how I myself feel. Case in point, at the SHOUT OUT when my friends are partaking of the bar. I am forced to buy Ginger Ale whether I want to or not for fear of getting caught in another surprise test. This is the epitome of bullshit.
We head over to the Big House and I get online there. I try to focus on anything, but I can't get anything to solidify in my head. It's as if my thinking is too muddled. I have been banging down fish oil, it's supposed to be good brain food. I think my brain doesn't need food, it needs a punishing. A brutal ass whuppping. It needs what only a quart of Jack Daniels can deliver. I need a lucidity that a good drink would give me. I need a drink, but not in the worst way though. Those days are gone. I need a drink in a logical sense.But this is only mental masturbation. Pleasant, exciting but too short and alone.
I try to focus once more, and enough energy builds. I go over the screenplay but there isn't enough in me to push the lazy assed characters into motion. I'm pissed and instead work on the paper to the SHOUT OUT. I breeze through them, and I'm done in minutes. Then I use what's left to blog, and that comes out fine. I sit, watching the security guards pace about, searching tirelessly for any patron infraction. I am a recidivist. I break out a pack of Slim Jims and start chewing away, stashing it under the table whenever their glances come my way. I enjoy breaking the rules. I live for it because there are too many for me. I flaunt them, and it's not good. Life is lived within rules. When we cease to respect authority, we get into trouble.
And I think that's the final resort of the homeless, and the foundation of the Skeksis, the usurping of all authority for oneself. To make up your own rules, and fuck the rules that others give you. Skeksis do not see where the rules apply to them simply because the rules do shit for them. Why follow anything that doesn't benefit you? I'm trying to live inside the lines given me also, but they are far too restrictive. I must rebel to survive. To be whole, even in the face of threats. Yeah, I'll be a good boy for a little while longer. I'll wear out my jailers. I'll have them waste their time testing me until they see no further point in it. Then I'll make my move. Then the trap will close. And they'll find themselves empty handed.
I think of this shit as I sit in the Big House, waiting for the time to be over so that I can head to Duane Reade, get some San Pellegrino, Slim Jims, Sardines and Advils for my morning. Just more pills that I have to keep in my bag to keep them from being taken as contraband during another sweep. These fuckers.And oh of course the sun falls behind the great gray buildings, drawing down the dark curtains of the heavens.
Oh, or course.
Hobobob
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