Dood Looks Like A Lady

Awwwright, I did it.

I got up and did twenty push ups and twenty sit ups. And that shit hurt. "What the fuck are you doing?" BK asks as he stops over the foot of my bed. Baking a fucking cake BK. "But we are proud of who we are," he says, sticks out his distended and hanging belly and pats it with a hand. You may be, I say to myself, but I sure am not.

That's exactly one of the reasons why I don't like exercising in the Box. It draws the attention of the kiddies. They actually stop over you and stare, as if you're fucking some young maiden in the middle of the floor. I don't need or want an audience. If I wanted an audience I would do my pushups naked, with a tall sunflower stuck up my asshole.

So, today, I woke up at six in the morning, too late to take that shower, but early enough to roll out of bed and onto my toes and hands. And yes, minutes later it did feel good, like great sex does in the morning. But not fucking enough to do it often I suppose. I used to jog for five miles every morning, and was as lean as a racehorse when younger. But now, I just don't have the capacity for such. I'm more of a sedate man, trying to make it though a sedate day. If I had some reason to be so hearty....

I get up and read my new book, 'The Intellingencer' and take it with me into the dining room. Once there I bump into 'Dood looks like a lady.' All made up, sporting his new breasts, earrings, lipstick and straight, thinning hair pulled back into a black pony tail. He perks up the instant that he sees me and waves. "Good morning sweetheart." Who the fuck are you talking to? I say this to myself though. I just look at him, turn and walk over to the television. I catch a snippet of the news before I get bored and anxious. Some home invasion when two of the perpetrators escaped. Not interesting. I leave the dining room and return to my bed. I get to reading.

The stroke of Seven hits, and I rise. BK is on his cellphone, talking loudly while the rest of the dorm is sleeping around him. He's staring directly at me as he speaks, then frowns. The question in his expression: "You're leaving now?" Yeah, I said. I'm out of here for some breakfast.

Breakfast is the nearby Starbucks on Broadway. I get a cup of the bean and take a sip. It is strong and causes the heart to race. I take a seat and ponder. I'm just as much addicted to the bean as I am alcohol. Well, I'm tired of calling my love of alcohol an addiction. I promise to you now that I'll never call it again. From now on I'll use words like 'affection' and 'love', which are my true feelings. I'll leave addiction to my other vices.

But I'm addicted to Joe. I need this black tea every morning just to get a rush out of the day. Just to wake up. Just to get started. I get behind my laptop, getting started and read email and blogging. This feels good. This is what I do.

This Starbucks is just like the rest. A cookie cutter version of reality. I have people around me. I always have people around me. The press of humanity. I can't escape it, can't be alone at all. I want to go into the bathroom and close the door and shut everyone out. And maybe take a shit while I'm being so dramatic. I'll continue to survive this, that's what I do. This is my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to hate it or regret it. I'll just recalibrate. Stop and assess. Reevaluate and reassess. I become analytical at times like these. It keeps the panic attacks at bay. It keeps me centered and focused.

I think I'll walk today uptown if my feet can handle it. My bunions hurt sometimes. My shoes are tight and my fallen arches feel pain.

I am happy. I am genuinely happy with this.

I can crank and complain, but so can you.

I bury my head in my laptop.

Hobobob