It's Just A Lie, Believe It

This is the second time this has happened to me.

I'm looking at a blank page and a blinking cursor. There is nothing coming out of my head but this line. I promised myself that I would write in my journal every day (if I can) and especially if I was home doing nothing. I mean, I can see if I'm out slaying dragons that I won't be blogging, or if I'm getting laid for a couple of days. Yes, DON'T EXPECT me to write anything. But if I'm dealing with pricks like Social Services, well, believe me, I'll have something to bitch and complain about.

But this isn't just a bitch and complain page, because I have a lot to crank about. No, this is a view into my mind. This is how I think. "This Is my head!" I'll roar as I beat my temple with my fingertips like John Malkovich in Being John Malkovich.

Like take going to Social Services for instance. You know how I feel about that, but what you probably don't know is that the building is in my neighborhood that I was raised in. Yeah, it's in a part of Brooklyn that I spent most of my youth in. A lot of it has changed. There are a lot of developing going on. Buildings that I remembered as a child are knocked down into large, flat lots of brick, wood and other debris. Huge skyscrapers soar into the air where small brownstones once stood. Brooklyn is churning, like a boiling pot, with new places and things as the small town (?) that I remember is mowed down like fresh grass.

I walk through the streets, which still bustle with people, throwing memories in my head. Like the time that I first saw Raiders of the Lost Ark as a tender teenager. I saved my allowance and somehow found a merchant that sold bull whips. I took that whip and coiled the leathery snake, and with a carabiner, attached it to a loop on my denims. With my mother, I walked down the sidewalk of Fulton Street shopping. A passing Police Officer noticed the whip and pulled us over. You see, the whip is classified as a weapon in New York City. He was a cool cop though. He let me keep the whip, as long as my mother put the whip in her shopping bag. Of course I got a slap to my bald head for that.

Just a story of the street that I walk down to get to the Mines of Moria.

Talk about a slap to your bald head. I get up and grab by room...err, studio key, and head outside to take a leak. Once stepping outside my front door, I hear Paula's clock alarm bleating in the hall. Actually, as I go to the bathroom, I still hear it there. I come back out remembering of life in the homeless shelter. Have you ever spent the night in a men's homeless shelter? God, I never thought that I would either. Ever. But there I was, a year and some change in a men's shelter. The most annoying part of the morning, IF you let it, is when someone's watch alarm goes off on their arm, and it would not wake them up. It'll wake up every fucking one else in the dorm, but it will not wake up it's user. This would happen with more than one of these stupid motherfuckers.

This is what I suspect is going on in squeezable headed Paula's room. This fucking alarm is going off next to her head, and she is dead asleep. What was the way that I avoided the stupid mugwomps whose alarms would go off during the mornings in the shelter? Get up before they wanted to. I always pop up around Four or Five O'clock unless I am up late. Late for me would be Two or Three O'clock. After that like I needed it I had a friend, Matthew who would wake me up.

This is an hour later, and that bitch ass alarm is still going off. Why even set such a thing if it doesn't wake you. I know this isn't the first time the alarm failed her. Only a skek would do something more than once like that. I sneak out my garbage, and...oh, yes, I have to sneak out my garbage. On our floor, there's a single trash can about waist high and made out of flexible plastic. We are supposed to throw our trash out here. However, it fills fast to be here for an entire floor. If it fills up the next place to to bring your trash eight floors down to the first floor room where the trash ends up in the long run.

Well, of course no one does this shit, but instead leaves their trash right at the foot of the trash bin. The trick is to not let your neighbors or others on your floor catch you doing it. So, we sneak out our trash. So...I'm sneaking out my trash - right, and slip into the bathroom with my piss bottles and pour them all out in the commode - why? Because it's just the right thing to do. I stash the trash on the floor with scores of others and beat feet out of the area. The cool thing about the trash is that our trash bins in our rooms....err, studios are so small that you can use a Duane Reade shopping bag as a liner. So there's no need to buy trash bags...ever. And I suppose it the same goes for my neighbors, because all I see from them are Duane Reade bags left behind at the trash bin.

I go into my room...err studio, and get behind my laptop. The world gets smaller instantly, shrinking down to just a white screen. A white screen that falls inwards, into the vast world of information.

I get on the Internet.

I can barely hear Paula's alarm. I put on my headsets.

Hobobob