No Reason For Introspection

"Well, your blood pressure is good," Dr. A. reports.

Yeah, that's good news. "A little higher than I like it, but it's still in normal range." Well, I take my medicines everyday like I'm supposed to since I've left The Box. "That's good." Dr. A. sits back in his chair. "Is there anything that you want to ask me? Any problems?" None at all, Doc. I feel swell. "With the salt, cut down on the salt a little. And get your exercise." Hey Doc, I've been walking all the way down to 72nd street from 98th street this week. "Very good. You've got to work on that stomach. You're in line for Diabetes." Yeah, I know this. All those years of drinking have caught up to me. If I'm not careful, I'll be taking insulin pills like my father. I've got to do something about my gut. The stomach plays a factor I guess.

I left the Doc's office and crossed the street to a Hallmark store and bought him a Christmas card. I wanted one that just said Season's Greetings, a nice, neutral greeting for the holidays, and with all the fucking cards that they had there, they didn't have ONE SINGLE CARD that said simply: "Season's Greetings". I had to get a Merry Christmas one and write Happy Holidays inside of it. I hope it doesn't get thrown out, or taken as an insult. It's the thought that matters, right?

Christmas is a difficult endeavor. No doubt about it. You have to be careful that you don't step on toes, that you don't leave people out, that you keep in touch. You have to get the right present, go to the right parties, and if you're really fucking lucky, dress like Santa. I float around marginally on the holidays. Last year, I gave my brother a cheapie watch. That was all the money that I could find on the streets. This year I don't think I'm going to give many gifts if any. I'm Scrooging this year. I want a wireless router and I'll have the money for it and little else. Christmas is a bitch isn't it.

I head over to the library where I meet up with my brother and Electra. I cop a squat and set up my baby. I'll only get an hour before I have to go. I surf and answer emails. Time seems to fly, and I end up in Starbucks on Madison. My brother has gone to an invitation at a filmmaker's home for dinner. For a homeless man, my brother runs around with a wealthy crowd. I'm sitting in Starbucks blogging and other than another lady and the staff behind the counter, I'm the only stupid motherfucker in the place. I look up from my baby and find that I'm alone again. All by myself as if engineered to be so.

To add insult to injury, the only other lady in here gets up, throws her coat over her arm and leaves.

Fuck

If I head home, I'm going to be just as alone there as I am now, so...what the fuck? I return to my blogging. I type like a maniac, belting out my feelings, my thoughts and what's happening around me, which seems to be nothing as of late. I have my privacy, something that I have wanted for some time. If you ever lose it, you'll learn just how valuable it is. I even have a private bathroom, although I have to share it with other numbskulls. Why do I call them numbskulls? Well some one in the fucking place has a marinara sauce fetish. I walk into the bathroom, needing to take a shit and I open the door and lift up the top of my favorite bathroom and spilled all on the seat of the toilet is marinara sauce. Who in the world? I look about as if the person is going to jump out from behind a curtain, waving their hands. And this isn't the first time this has happened. They've done this at least three times before. That's why I call it a fetish.

Fuck it, I go to the other handicapped bathroom right across from it, and lift up the seat...and I'm not going to tell you what was on this seat because I was told that I've been a little too much on the toilet humor, so I'll tone it down. But needless to say, I couldn't sit there. So, I go all the way down the long hall of my floor to the other two bathrooms. I go to the first one and there is no fucking toilet seat at all. None at all. The only thing there is the porcelain bowl. Now who, I ask you, who would take a fucking toilet seat? What is the matter with these people? I go to the last bathroom on this side of the building and there it is, pristine, shiny, the floor shimmering, the bowl sparkling. I rest my cookies down in relief.

That's the odyssey of using the bathrooms here in The Spot.

Finally, there is definitely something weird about Sugar Plum. She is always eating. She's cute as Hell, but she's also rotund. Yeah, she's like me, heavy around the middle and thighs. I think she thinks that I want to be like her, or with her, or whatever because on one day, when I went shopping for my Coffee Maker, I came back too late for Breakfast. The glass doors were locked, and she was on the other side. When she saw me she opened up and let me in. "Do you want a lunch to take with you upstairs?" Yes, please. She directed the kitchen staff to give me a lunch while they grumbled that they were closed.

Now today, I'm leaving to go to my doctor's appoint- ment and she comes out of the office in the long hall. "Hey!" She calls out. "Do you want some Mexican food?" What? Mexican food? Can't you see that I'm on my way out the door? No thank you, I reply nicely because I don't want to anger her and have her snap her fingers. Then a gang of thugs appear and drag me outside to throw me a serious beating.

I'm always suspicious of people that cause my antennae to tremble. Sugar Plum does that.

I look at my watch. It's ten minutes to Nine. I think I'll stay for a few more minutes. I look around. The tables are filling up with people. Chatting, drinking coffee. I'm not alone anymore, although I am in the big city. Alone among the many.

I pack up at Nine, and head home.

Hobobob