Curse The Chairs

Another day.

They come like that sometimes. Unwanted, uninvited, who asked for them? That's how I would like to die though, in my sleep. Then it would be a nice long nap to wherever you go when you die. That's if you go anywhere. This could be just one long trip to the big sleep. I think about mortality sometimes. I've had a lot of reasons to. Since my body functions stopped and then half-heartedly restarted, I've had a great deal of time to think. What do you think I thought about when I was in the hospital? Or when they released me with a grim prognosis?

Death.

But waking up today. Well, then, that's just another day to live on. I rise, sitting up in bed and looking about. It takes me a minute to register that today is Saturday. The lights are off in the dorm and it's after six. Clear signs of a Saturday. I feel achy. My shoulder is shot to Hell. It's so unresponsive, and every motion fills me with pain. I'll need another adjustment from my doctor next Friday. I struggle out of the bed. I'm beginning to think that my body is starting to break down from carrying twenty eight pounds of luggage on my back every single day for two years. I have not gone a day without lugging that bag around with me. Not one that I can think of. Talk about a monkey on your back.

My teeth are hurting. I think that I may be grinding them in my sleep. I go to the bathroom and brush them vigorously, almost in an attempt to brush them free of my head. I make up my bed and get ready quite slowly and then head out to the Astor Place Starbucks, where I have to play "Starbucks Musical Chairs". It's an interesting game that I've found out that I play nearly every time that I go there. Upon entering, I will have three or four tables that I like to sit at, because they are close to an outlet.

Prudence dictates that I take my bag and place it into one of the seats next to these tables, but no. Common sense dictates never to let my bag out of my sight in public establishments. Instead, I go up and order. When I look over my shoulder, two people have sat down at two of the tables that I wanted, but at least there are two more. As I prepare my coffee with sugar and milk another person takes another table, and when I'm done there is a person strolling up to the last one, putting a hand on it to mark their territory, but looking around for a better place to sit. I wait and watch and I have a fifty/fifty chance of their taking the seat, leaving me to sit it out and wait. Do you know what really pisses me off about these dorks is that THEY DON'T EVEN NEED THE FUCKING OUTLETS. They just sit there, letting these outlets go to waste. Those with laptops, I can understand, and those wanting to charge their cell phones make sense, but the motherfuckers who whip out paperbacks or binders blow my mind. They really do. There should be a notice etched into the surface of the table that says that those without electronic equipment have to sit elsewhere.

I would make one out of a stencil and spray it on the tables, but I would most likely get caught and held or the defacing of private property. Yes, even though Starbucks is a public place, their property is still private. But something must be done about this shit. And since this place is my living room, I'm just the man to do it.

I get an IM from my friend Oz, stating that he will come by and show me some work that he had completed on a CD. He shoots over and we chill, talking about his work and his band. He stays with me for awhile until I get the mad itch. I'm literally dying inside to play 2142. I'm sitting down there and just TRY to connect to the EA Master server. The Master server that manages the worldwide network of servers that host the games. Yes, that's right, 2142 is played on servers all across the planet. There are servers in France, Germany, Iceland, Japan, and even Russia. And guess what, I CONNECT to the Master Server. From Downtown even. Consider what this is like for me all of a sudden. It's like receiving an epiphany. A message from God. From there, just for shits and giggles, I then try to connect to a hosting server, one actually hosting the game, from over a thousand server choices listing in. One picks me up for a game. Holy shit. And Oz is right across from me. My addiction is being served up hot and I give in.

It's like a beautiful woman beckoning you into her bed, and you're on the phone with your best friend. Good God I was torn. I gave in though, of course you know. I'm weak when it comes to fighting against my desires. Oz shortly leaves me to my addiction, and I play until the rotten routers in lower Manhattan have such a high ping rate that the server boots me.

That's alright though, I have a lot to do. I work on the screenplay, finding my groove and plowing though it like a field. I grind it just that much closer to its conclusion. It's slow going but I'll get there, I know it. I'm doing better with it than my fucking article. That's going to prove to be my undoing unless I get on the stick.

But that's all. It's now time for the SHOUT OUT, and I put away my gear. Before I even get a chance to clean up my table another patron comes up to me, gesturing to the table. "Are you leaving now?" He asks. Yeah. I'm leaving.

I head to the SHOUT OUT.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/11/curse-chairs.html
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