I have a super power.
I do. I should be a superhero. I have a power that most people only wish that they have. What is it? What could it be? Social Anxiety/Bipolar Disorder. Oh, and I just learned from Dr. A that bipolar actually means manic/depressive. Ha ha ha...and yet, that is not my super power. I walk every day for two hours down the block and when you have Social Anxiety, you feel uneasy about this shit. Very uneasy. Death seems to creep all around you. People are walking corpses, the sky is dim and gloomy, buildings tremble unsteadily, cars melt and twist all by themselves. And the snow, the gray snow, is all over the place.
When you walk you feel a sincere sense of dread, a creeping death, as if you are caught in someone's cross-hairs, following you, scoping you, centering on your temple. Just a tightening of the trigger, a friendly squeeze and your head will pop open like an egg in a microwave. What does this perception cause? Would you like to wonder? Well, the medical term for it is Hyper-vigilance. Yeah. Your eyes catch everything moving on the sidewalk, everyone passing by, the planes overhead, the cars in the street. Yeah, you see and sense everything in a kind of hyper-reality. It's both amazing and frightening...and also quite tiring.
Yes, you are completely exhausted in minutes. It's like carrying a heavy weight in your hands ahead of you. Your shoulders ache, your neck pains, your biceps throb. You quickly tire but New York still surges around you, still moves with a manic restlessness. You can't keep up this shit for long, so you take it in little pieces. Small pieces. Bite sized. Hyper-vigilance is like Spidey-sense. Here, let me give you a few examples.
While walking across 72nd street, tired. I have already walked from 98th to 48th. On my way back up I pass a moving van parked against the sidewalk. Around its opened rear are a group of heavy looking, broad shouldered moving men. From them, something moves like a rocket across the ground, shooting to my feet. In mid-fucking-stride, I balance on one foot, and bring the other down, trapping a rolling dolly. You know, the ones that you put heavy stuff on to roll shit around? One of those. One of the moving men kicked it to send it over the curb and it shot across the walk at me. This all took about three seconds. "Oh, sorry about that," the doofus said to me.
Here is what hyper-vigilance is all about. I was not even looking at these men or what they were doing. I was just walking and sweating in the New York sun. Anything that comes at me, fast or slow, I will intercept it. I am ready for it. I will stop it, or run from it. Anything from any direction, because all of my senses are charged to protect me. Eyes, ears, smell...all with their volume turned way up. Get my superpower now?
Here, now this next tale will be under- standable to you. Or maybe not. I'm walking down Broadway, my hyper-sense on full auto. I'm getting ready to put my time in a long, brutal walk that will leave my body sore for days. I have my headsets blasting in my ears to give them something else to do except run on high. And then I feel a cold, strange feeling just behind me, over my right shoulder as I stride on. I can't ignore it. It's screaming imperceptibly in my ear. I turn my head to glance over my shoulder and she is right behind me, up against my back, her chin practically on my shoulder. A blonde, somewhat attractive, long haired, sunken eyes. There is something that screams addict about her, but I just can't put my finger on what it is.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, slows down and puts space between us. It's too late though. My heart is pounding, my radar is on, she's in my scope. She doesn't draw away though, but comes around me and up, walking by my left side now. She looks at me squarely, scanning my eyes. "You're pretty good," she smiles knowingly. Excuse me? I say. "Your gun looks like a water bottle in your back pocket," she motions with her head behind me. I frown. Shit, there IS a water bottle in my back pocket, but I don't say this to her. Instinctively I reach behind me. How can she think that? Then I notice that the bottle is half in my pocket and the other half is covered over by my tee shirt.
"You almost had me fooled," the Blonde smiles at me, her eyes twinkling. Fooled? I'm still not catching on. "You're a pretty good cop, I just want you to know that I've blown your cover," again, the knowing smile. She fades away, moving from me to the corner, and before turning it, she takes two fingers, moves them before her eyes, then points them at me. She's gone. Fuck. I didn't have the heart or the time to tell her that I'm homeless, but shit, I wonder to myself, I look like Hell warmed over. Bearded, crazy haired afro, Dockers slacks and a tee, maybe she thought I was trying too hard to 'look' like a homeless guy.Hey you blue eyed, roller coaster ride of a fuck, I AM THE REAL THING!!
Fuck, even the cops get credit for home- lessness. No wonder people don't pitch coins into the cups of street bums. People think that they are undercover officers. This also explains something else about me. Hyper-vigilance is very tiring, like holding up a heavy shield. In doing so without my free will it's aggravating. Maddening, thus it makes me fucking angry. This anger is directed at my fellow New Yorkers walking around me and, oh, and the fucking tourists. I'm not angry at them, I'm angry at myself for not being able to stop worrying about their threat level.
Maybe that's why when men walk past me, striking me with their shoulder, I strike back. I can see them from a block away...remember, I'm hyper-vigilant. I'm already angry so this is just a wind up. Fucker is coming right at me now, I steady my back, tighten my shoulder and we collide. He's not really expecting the solidity of my shoulder so he is knocked to the side, partially turning around. So, in anger he turns around completely to stare at me. I can just see his face saying: What the Fuck? He should see mine. My face is in almost a clown face of manic laughter. If I can't hold it I may just drop to my knees and start guffawing loudly. Instead I continue on, oblivious. This feels better than you can possibly imagine.
But do you know what feels worse? What's even more of a problem than mothers with their fucking strollers forcing you off the sidewalk? Oblivious New York women. Now I just gave you an example of shouldering a man. I walk every day and the above occurs about once a month. Rarely, that's why I love it so much. Men usually are much more in touch with the world around them and realize that if they run into another man in the street, it's like a challenge. It's like saying that you want to start something with him. So, to keep from getting a daily black eye, a man is just more careful how they confront another man. Women, on the other hand, have no fucking clue about what I'm talking about. Why do I say this?
Hey, I'm not shitting on women now. Also, I'm not shitting on New York women or tourists...well maybe tourists more, but I'm singling out a class of women who are more interested about their cellphone call, or their text message on their Blackberry, or busy chattering like a pair of castanets to their girlfriend walking with her. So, what happens? They plow into you like you are not even there. Further, they don't even say excuse me, but walk on...kind of what I do to men. Is she smiling at me behind herself? Oh, and this does not happen once a month, but instead several dozen times a day. I find myself no longer walking down the block but instead ducking women as I head to where I'm going. It's almost like playing dodge ball with tits.
This is aggra- vating. I'm contem- plating treating women like I do men, but the exercise would no doubt become tiring because they're so many of them. My shoulder would probably fall off by the time I got home. Women. I can see it now, colliding into one of them, my shoulder solid and fixed, knocking her from her high heeled stride to her round ass on concrete. It would be just my luck that she'd turn all rocking chair on me, rock back, and strike the back of her head on the sidewalk. Her body would go slack, spread eagle as if ready for a fuck and there I would be, standing over her, my mouth agape, eyes wide. Immediately, a ring of angry women will gather around me, shouting and screaming, calling me no 'real man'.
Then, emerging like a clown from behind a stage curtain, a cop would appear from the sea of females, brandishing a baton, and clearly land it against my afro-ed head. The ambulance would pick her up, the trunk of the squad car would take me. Naaaah, fuck that. I'd rather keep up my evasive maneuvers, dancing like a ballet fag around them. Hey, hate me for telling you how I feel, but this shit pisses me off.
Okay, lets get the fuck off my walk. I know everyone hates hearing about the streets of New York over and over again, so I'll tell you about the benefits of walking for two hours a day. It builds up your old body. Tightens and firms muscle, melts away fat, which Dr. A told me I had lost seven pounds. It also gives you fantastic Morning Wood.
Ohhh, maybe you lovely ladies who can stand to read me might not know what I'm talking about, so I'll both explain and elaborate. When a man is young, such as I at one time, we enjoy relatively good health. We are more active, more athletic. Our bodies are toned and strong and vibrant because of this. What also happens is that on many occasions, for some young men every fucking day, they wake up with this incredibly hard erection. I'm talking about erections that throb with the beat of your heart, and hurt as if you caught it in the door. This motherfucker is ready to be used. I don't know where it comes from but it's called Morning Wood and usually men who are young and athletic get it often.
If you are anything like me though, and got married at 26, you stopped exercising when you hit 35 and before you knew it, goodbye Morning Wood. I mean, when I was married, in the beginning, and woke up with Morning Wood, my ex would open her eyes tiredly from sleep, finding me mounting her and pounding away. What a way to wake up, she would say at the kitchen table with a smile. But after waking up like that once too often, it gets old to her and she wakes up quicker, pushing you off, definitely not in the mood. So you stop using your Morning Wood, and as you get out of shape, you don't miss it, because you're not using it.
Then, that fucking bitch leaves you...oh, sorry...I mean, my ex-wife, and still you don't need the Morning Wood. Why? Because after your separation, you meet women at a bar, give them a couple of drinks, take them home, fuck them on the couch or on that rare occasion, on your bed and when you are done, you do two things. 1) Get them dressed and out the door, or 2) go straight to sleep. In the morning you get her dressed and out of the door just as fast. Fucking her a second time? Well, if she was a great bang, maybe, but you can always crank a dick up to work by just seeing a naked, willing body. You don't need the automatic Morning Wood.
Well, I haven't seen a Morning Wood since the last time I slept with a woman...oh maybe the second to last time that I slept with a woman, and got ready for a morning screw. But since then, nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've been waking up with the wet noodle...well, hmmm, what's smaller than a macaroni? But, shit, today I woke up with a tent on top of me. If I rolled over in my sleep I would probably prop up and then fall over the side of the bed. This motherfucker was like a baseball bat between my legs, well maybe a knife handle, BUT it still was an erection. One that I haven't had since I don't know when. God, how I wished I had a woman in my bed today.
I'd do the old trick that us guys do. While she is asleep, pull her up until the crown of her head touches the headboard, spread her legs, mount her, and start pounding away. Her head will rock back and forth, slamming against the headboard, crossing her eyes and chattering her teeth. We call this 'Playing Handball with her skull"! Every woman handles this event differently. The one that goes angry quickly, get the fuck off! Immediately. Still, don't forget the fun in sex and get a few good strokes in. It allows the neighbors to realize that you are getting some.
Well, it's very early in the morning. The sun is rising behind me. I might take a nap, and then get up and get this walk in. I want you all to know, that I'm trying to write daily now. Well, maybe every other day. I don't want to write drivel, but write when I have something to say, and since I'm off the streets and away from the fucking Skeksies, I have less to complain about.
But I still have skeks to deal with...so I'll always have something to say.Get Wood everybody! (Both boys and girls)
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2010/08/superman-doesn-do-starbucks.html
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