Feeling for Boundaries

I wake up achy and hurting. I'm getting too old to be waking up in the mornings. I need to wake up sleep. You know, just get up but not be awake. Almost like sleepwalking but you're awake. You're just not awake. All the aches and pains are sent to me through telegraph, it's so far away. Then, when I'm ready I'll wake up and be in the middle or end of doing something, and I would laugh because I wasn't doing it, 'I' was doing it. The other I.

But as it is, I have to head to the bathroom and take my morning piss. This just about wakes me up because, as you know, I have to grab my house keys, go down the hall to the bathroom, take out my little mouse and piss, and then do the reverse all the way back. That'll wake your ass up quick. On top of that I put on some strong coffee and I'm pretty much awake. I turn on the computer and I'm ready for work.

I do the email thing, the blog thing, the Novel thing, the breakfast thing, the mastur- batory thing, the shower thing, the sleep thing, the Novel thing, the Facebook thing. It's time to stop doing things. It's late. The afternoon sun is setting. I spent another day in the Space Pod. Or so I thought I would. I get up and put on an EVA suit (ExtraVehicular Activity), otherwise known as my coat, and some clothes and head out. I get to the elevator and press the call button, and that's when I hear footsteps coming down the hall. I start immediately biting my nails.

It's Paula! OH GAWD! She's back already? How are you Paula? "NOT good," she replies. "Have you heard what happened?" I nod, I didn't want to tell her that I was listening through the door. Well...well, I heard something through.... "He's dead," she interrupted. What? Who? "Anthony, you know Anthony....he died." Her face started to contort, tears built in her eyes. Who the fuck is Anthony? I remember her showing him to me from a distance. I had my glasses too far up my nose, couldn't look over them to see clearly at a distance. She said that he was in The Box with all of us. I don't remember him, not that I would, I didn't associate with many of the people in The Box.

Waitaminute, could Anthony be her Fiancee? Holy Shit if he was. She started to cry, "We buried him Saturday." The elevator arrived. I walk sideways to enter in, not turning my back to her. "When you come back, come by and I'll show you a picture of him," she says as the door closes. Not much chance of that happening Paula, I say to myself. I feel for her, I really do, but I don't want to be a part of her sympathy network.

People use tragedies to gather more people into their orbit. Not that I'm a bastid or anything. Because I iz. I just don't want to get involved with mourning right now. I'll wait until long after the waterworks die down before getting involved with all of that. I ride the elevator down and leave into a very nice afternoon. I head downtown to the 96th Avenue Gristedes, and knew exactly where the can openers were. I know Duane Reade and Walgreens don't have them, so I go to the only place I knew that did. At the row of kitchen utensils I find the same fucking can opener from the same fucking company, Kitchenmate. I pass on that shit.

I move on going down the line of kitchen utensils the width of the store, and get to the fucking end. No other can opener. They have everything else, from egg slicers to fruit juicers but only one type and brand of can opener. Why oh why do I have to get the heavy duty high tech one again? I just want a simple, cheap can opener, like my mother used to have, that looked like a pair of pliers. One handle was round, like a straw, the other was flat with a can or bottle opener at the end. What ever happened to those? I go back to the Kitchenmate Can opener and take it off it's hook. I look at the price. A whopping $12.00!! What the Hell?? They can't have a cheapie can opener for the poor people that live up here in moneyland? Arrgh. I just hate parting with $12.00 for the same shit that broke up on me just over a week ago.

I go food shopping and use my meager savings to buy the fucking thing. I mean, you can see my logic can't you? Just a few weeks ago I bought a beautiful French press for $4.00 more. I know a racket when I see one, and this is definitely a racket. I take my ass home fuming and make myself comfortable before my system once more. I am excited that I went out, and even more excited that I came back. I write poetry, send out resumes, edit the novel. Page count 800. At this pace I should be finished before the end of the month. That would be great.

I type away until sleep overtakes me.

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