Sunday Murderer

I kill Sunday.

That's right. I put it's head on a chopping block and knock it off. I don't do a fucking thing other than play on the Internet. I don't care to do anything. My neighbors, Paula and her friends, are making a ton of noise in the hallway outside my door. These fucks, their rooms are too small for them. They have to open their doors and use the hallway as a defacto livingroom. What kind of shit is that? I want to napalm the entire hallway, chemically burn the fuck out of them. I put on my headsets and drown them out. I listen to Pandora radio and hunker down into my laptop. Then I check out Blogger.com and try to build another blog for the SHOUT OUT but this fuck doesn't want to straighten out. Not only that but it's code is mingling with the code in MY blog, fucking IT up. That tears it! I dump the shit. Kaboom. Fuck it. I'll have to try it under a different alias so that it leaves this blog alone. I hope I didn't fuck mine up with all this wild coding.

I end the evening watching Battlestar Galactica on my laptop until 2:00am.


I wake at 7:00am

Damn it's late. I have to go into the office today. I barely have enough time to get ready. I'm pissed. I skip my exercises and head out, packing up my gear and heading into the rush hour traffic on the Way. God, how I hate the rush hour. The working drones are packed on the platform, and like zombies they stuff themselves into the express train, squeezing in like sardines in a can. I take the local. Just fewer people. I'm in no hurry. I may have gotten up late, but I travel early so that I don't have to play pack the asses.

I make my way to the office and get busy. The day goes quick, and before I know it I'm done. The night is mine. I head to Madison Starbucks to meet up with my brother and he produces his new laptop. A Dell Inspiron. Not a bad tool for $300.00. It's just perfect for his needs, and it has WIFI so he can get online. He's loving being online without the library. There is nothing better than having a connection to the world that's not metered out by the NYPL. Now he has a faithful companion. A must for a homeless person.

I'm a bit on the depressed side today. I don't know why. I have tons of WELL- BUTRIN in my blood- stream and in my house. I should be bouncing off the walls, but I can't shake this feeling of grim melancholy. I feel like something has died that I loved a great deal. I feel like something has been separated from me, like and arm or a leg. I can't put my finger on this vague feeling but it's there.

It get's late at Starbucks. I see Electra walk in, go about her business as if she doesn't see me. I wonder what's stuck in her craw now? I know I haven't been down to the library for a few weeks now, but that doesn't mean that we have to end a friendship. I don't know about her, really. She leaves before closing and doesn't even wave goodbye. Strange. I get up and head out with my brother. He rides with me uptown to the 96th Street station where we part. I walk the near empty streets, the cold wind whipping, to the Duane Reade where I go food shopping. Some microwavable stuff. I check the calories. I have a range that I'm looking for to make a nice dinner. Somewhere between 200-330 calories a serving. That way I can have more than one.

When I get home I trip over a paper that was pushed under my door. It reads: "Sugar Plum stopped by your apartment on Monday, January 26th, 2009 at 3:11PM. Please contact me as soon as possible. Happy New Year Hobobob, I have not seen you for awhile and wanted to followup on your well being. In addition, I need to meet with you so we can go over your progress notes for the month of January 2009." Thorough, aren't they? Progress notes, huh? I make a mental note to see her in the morning. I unpack my gear, set up my baby and get it online. I microwave one of the dinners, Roast Beef and Gravy. 230 calories. I go off my diet by 30 calories. No big deal. It was the coffees today. That's all I ran on all day long, was one grande coffee after the other, from morning 'till night. It was just that busy. I put the rest of the food away. Stare at the dishes in the sink. I just can't get the urge to clean them. I stare at them some more, as if they'll get up and clean themselves. I check my email and then blog.

Tomorrow, I have Dr. D.'s session. Another hour with a room full of Punch Clowns. Twelve of them. Ugh.

This is going to be an easy night. I'm going to finish this post and go to bed.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/01/sunday-murderer.html
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