I've seen it all.
Walking out of The spot for a quick second to get stuff from Duane Reade, I'm walking down the long hallway from the elevator to the mantrap, right? Coming into the building was a FUCKED UP skeksis.
Yeah, that's right, one of those bearded old men that you would see walking down the street in exhausted clothing: brown and gray stains on his slacks, holes at the knees and elbows, shoes so battered that they flapped open at the soles, revealing black, unwashed toes. His hair a tangled mess of gray on his head that hadn't seen water in years, his face spotted with dirt. Gloves with holes at the fingers, a long, light gray trench coat, stained and torn, carrying a cardboard sign of which I could not read because it was turned the other way.
This is the same type of mother- fucker that you would see BEGGING IN THE STREET!!! Security just let him in because he was walking and behaving just like you or I, and because HE LIVES HERE. He could easily go to a soup kitchen or hang out for the Q, AS I DID! Get some decent motherfucking clothes. He could easily take a shower and look presentable AS I DO! He no doubt gets his breakfast and lunch here, JUST AS I DO. So he's not starving for food. Instead he wants to beg in the streets, no doubt because there is more money in it than one might think.
He's a fraud. I think about this as I watch him pass me. He sleeps in a comfortable bed in a comfortable apartment every night. My own brother doesn't have that amenity. This guy probably eats McDonalds, takes vacations to see his kids, lingers until late on the Internet to goes shopping and watches his favorite TV shows before going to work in the morning sitting on a street corner looking miserable. He probably has a home in Florida, with a score of babes to do his bidding. Hey, I know I'm getting somewhat extreme here, but shit, how many people are just like him? How many people in the city see begging as a racket to fleece those with kind hearts, or making a mockery of those outside who don't have such creature comforts, or all of their marbles to get out of the streets.
I fume, but I do nothing. I say nothing. There is nothing to do or say. Hell, if I said something he might just shiv me in the gut and I'll bleed out here in the long hallway because the security guards here are stupid. Well, there goes my castastrophizing again.
I get up this morning, and the first thing that I do other than my exercise is make coffee. Yeah, I make a fresh brewed cup of Cafe Bustelo. I watched as my new coffee maker brewed every drop, and then gave it the taste test. It was right on the money. Oh how good it was to start the day with a cup of the bean and not have to stand on a line for it. I had coffee for breakfast and coffee for lunch, and left a pot waiting for a coffee at dinner.
"So how do you like your new place?" Doctor L. asks. She crosses her legs and leans back in her seat. It's great, Doc. I'm loving it. I tell her all about moving in and shit. Then the conversation steers over to LYRICA. I tell her how I'm doing under it. I'm not fretting over things as much as I used to be. Before I would stay stressed out, so bugged out that I couldn't do much of anything, but now I am clear enough to know when I am Catastrophizing. "It sounds like when you sort of physiologically get a little calmer then you can use some of the problem solving, and some of the other strategies like prioritizing and cutting off the rotation before it gets bigger. Kind of like sets the stage for you to be able to think differently." Yeah, LYRICA kinda turns the static down. I get to think more than worry. God bless LYRICA. She shakes her head: "Well not to take away from the medications because they do play a very central role, but you also work at this stuff. It gives you the base, but it's the base, and then its kind of up to you after that." Hmmmm, I sometimes don't think of that. I discount my efforts all the time. I like to hang my progress on science and not me. She gives me a lot to think about. I do work hard on my sessions and what I'm learning about my self, my thinking.
Earlier today, I walked downtown to the train. That's right, I walked from 98th street to 72nd street. I have to say, they were a lot of fucking blocks. And then, after my therapy session I had to walk from 23rd street to 34th. That's a shitload of walking for one day. And I did it with no real difficulty. I'm not even tired now that I'm home. I feel energized and ready for tomorrow. It might have been from the walking, or from the many cups of coffee that I've had today. As soon as I got home I warmed up another mug of the stuff in the carafe. I'm ready to walk every day, andd if I can keep that shit up I'll definitely get into shape for the summer.
I hate dieting. I just do. Plus, you can't build lean muscle from dieting, which makes it impossible to keep the weight off. But everything comes with a price. Although I'm feeling great now, tomorrow will be another story. After the muscles have had the opportunity to knit it will be a day of aches and pains. That's why I have a ready bottle of pain killers in my cabinet, just for such an outcome. You can't tell me that the Hobo doesn't come to the party prepared.
The night is quickly closing in on me. I'm sitting alone in my room, listening to Internet radio, blogging on my word processor and finishing up on sipping a cup of joe. My nerves are twitchy, my eyes are clear, and I'm not tired. I look at the clock on the microwave, my new timepiece in the room, and it reads 12:20am. Still too early.
It's time to surf the web.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/12/you-faking-it.html
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