All Intents and Purposes

Best laid plans, right?

That's why I hate making them.
They never work out. They never do. They are just lists of shit that just doesn't happen. I'm sitting in Starbucks this morning and blogging my Black ass off. I'm flying off the handle. Seriously, I'm blogging and writing poetry and haiku and all that shit that I like to do, and feel responsible to do. I'm cooking with gas baby. And I have this idea to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It sounds like a good idea. At the motherfucking time, which was like Eleven O'clock in the morning.

By noon, I was leaving the Broadway Starbucks and heading for the number six train uptown. I got to the library at around Twelve Thirty and met up with OBSIDIAN. Here's where it gets interesting. I tell him about my 'plan' to go to MOMA, and I invite him to go. He thinks it's a good idea, and now there's two people with a 'plan'. Now shouldn't this thing go right?

I get online and get busy. I don't play 2142 today. There just isn't time. Neither do I watch any movies, but I do write poetry, and I do bullshit with friends online. So much so that it's time to run. My brother and I head outside only to find the rain falling in the city. Yeah, it's coming down and I don't feel like pulling out my poncho. So I walk through the motherfucking rain to get to the train station. Now that wasn't in the motherfucking plan. We head over to 53rd street and get to MOMA in the rain and walk right to the front door. But we can't enter in, because there is a sign with an arrow saying: Line for free entry.

This line goes down the block. No biggie. We march on. That wasn't in the plan either. When we get to the end of the block the line turns and heads down to the end of the next block. Was this in the plan? We walk down to the end of this block and turn, and guess what....the line continues down to the end of the next block. What the fuck? And it's raining cold and miserable out and people are chattering away under umbrellas, as if they're going to get inside this year.

My brother and I look at each other. Is this for real or is this a comic book reality? What do you want to do now? What's in the motherfucking plan? We of course make new plans. And that's the beauty of plans, you can always make more of them and feel as if you're following something other than blind damnable chance. We decided to head down to the Madison Avenue Starbucks and chill for the rest of the evening.

This plan follows though and we sit and chill. While online Igor IM's me. With sorry assed spelling he tortures me to read his responses. I struggle for fifteen minutes. There are just some things that some people should not do on computers. His is not to IM. Never. Ever. If he touches a keyboard again he should be thrown to the floor and have his fingers crushed.

He complains about how much he loaned Mike Murder and how Mike Murder walked off on him, skipping out on paying him back. He bitches about this, because he had lent him One Hundred and Sixty dollars. Now why in the fuck would you lend anyone that kind of money in a homeless shelter? Can you answer me that? Would you do that? I'm wet and cold and trembling and this prickhead is bitching and moaning about how much money he gave away for all intents and purposes.

I can't wait until this goofball is off IM, letting me finish blogging my literally trying day. When it is time I return to the Box, where I sit and blog. I relax, ready to wind down. All I want to be is left alone. Well, of course you know that is an impossible feat. First, on my bed is a stupid memorandum which reads in part: "All clients are required to attend morning meeting. If you cannot attend due to an appointment or due to an early morning start time at your program you need to have your absence excused by your ILS in advance. You have already agreed to attend morning meeting as part of the intake agreement, and it is important to hear announcements about facility issues and community issues. There will be behavioral consequences for repeated poor attendance at morning meeting."

There is nothing on God's given green assed Earth as fucking stupid as Morning Meeting. It is the most impressive and compelling waste of motherfucking time you'll ever experience. There is absolutely nothing that compares to gathering in a small room, too small for all of us to fit in comfortably, and hear the counselors say: "Have a good day." I intentionally avoid the Morning Meeting because I'd rather jerk off with sandpaper. I am downhearted about the prospect. I want to slash my wrists in the bathroom but there isn't a bathtub to fill with water. I'd have to stand, and walk around in circles quietly until I expired. That would take a long time, and probably several incisions. I would have to take a magazine with me, and sit on the commode. Maybe a book. I could probably finish it.

In my dejected state, Igor and Angel approach me with a cellphone. They wish to give it to me. Here, you can have it, they chant together. It belonged to Mike Murder, but they stole it because Mike Murder owed them money and didn't pay it back. They tried to sell it for the money owed but they couldn't. So they've decided to give it away. And guess who was the lucky recipient?

I was too tired to argue with them. I don't like the fact that it's stolen goods, but then again, who knows where Angel is getting his stuff anyway. Maybe now I do. I was surprised at Igor though. I took the device and buried it. I will not use it but rather hold onto it for a week or two and then return it to these two knuckleheads, telling them that I suddenly had a crisis of conscience. Let them argue with that. I'll not buy parts for the for the device so as to make it mine. It would really be immoral. They shouldn't have told me where they got it from.

Then comes Dante. He has something for me to listen to from his class. How sweet. He had made it with his own two hands and wanted someone to listen to it. So he chose me. Maybe that's why he's so dark and sinister some days and so amicable on others. Because he wants to be understood. That could be the case. Well I don't have the time or inclination to hold a grown man's hands. Shit, no one is holding mine. Sorry. Think me wrong or bad, either way, I'm carrying my own weight, I'll wait until later to carry someone else's.

But I do listen to his CD. Yeah, I cave in when I'm tired.
I'm too tired of the Racing Rats. They've outdone me tonight.
The Box even has the air conditioning blasting, and I am cold and wet. Don't tell me to change into dry clothes either, because I have none that are clean. I'd rather get under the blankets and go to sleep later.

I guess that was the plan for today,
to make me miserable.

Hobobob