Wait Until I Screw My Head On

The stairs are my friend, the stairs are my friend.

I repeat this to myself. It's early in the morning, and they are no doubt serving breakfast/lunch downstairs in the cafeteria. But as I walk outside of my apartment and walk down the hall, to check the elevator, the thought does not seem to ring true to me. Then, I find that the elevator is still out of service. A note on the door reading that the elevators will not be in service until a flood in the elevator well is taken care of.

How in the fuck?? How do you fucking flood an elevator well? Who can answer that for me, please?? How do you fucking do that? HOW DO YOU FUCKING DO THAT??? Do you call out to do something like that? Like take out dinner? Is that how it goes?

Simmering, I return to my room and don a pair of comfortable sneakers, and then take to the stairs. I shoot down the sixteen flights, my knees not hurting as much as they were yesterday. I was surprised although, I found aches and pains and actually bruises on my tender body from where the edges of the stair railing came into contact with my arms on the walks up. I shoot downstairs and head for the cafeteria.

Inside the doorway, on a chair, sits the chatting Snow White, as cute as a pale button. "Hobo!" she exclaims. "Or is it Bob? What do you want to be called again??" Bob, I reply, or Hobobob, but not Hobo, I inform her. Hey, if you want to be my friend, you need to get the name right. That's how I see it. I head to the cafeteria ladies and this time there is a slow moving man back there, and when I say slow...I mean SLOW. This guy was obviously caught in a temporal displacement and we could not tell what the fuck we were looking at! He was struggling as if air was gelatin. I stared at this clown for some time in amazement as he filled up my bag of food in slow motion.

I finally got my hand on my bag, thanked them both, and headed out, saying goodbye to Snow White. I get to the bottom of the flight of stairs up....take a deep breath to begin with, and then ascend. I work my way up, like pushing a bowling ball upstairs, a Sisyphean effort. I use the walls to lean against to keep from collapsing. I reach the top of the stair with tears welling in m eyes. I made it. Dayum!

I make it home, put away the food, and then jump behind the computer. As the sun slowly crept upon the horizon I got the urge to have a bottle of wine with my dinner of shrimp and rice. I headed downstairs...again and still, this time there was no pain in the knees or the ankles, and so out I ran and then back again, hitting the stairs, and without the pack, I made it to the top nonstop. My body already snapping to the line and compensating for the new exercise. Hmmm, I think to myself when I got to my room. Why pay for membership at some expensive spa, when I can scale the fucking stairs in my apartment building.

I had a decent dinner if I should say so myself, got online for several hours, and then crashed my worn ass on the bed, tired from climbing up and downstairs. I am ashamed to say that I felt as if I played some form of sport all day long. I was earnestly tired, which shows just how far out of shape I've become. I closed my eyes, and sleep swallowed me whole like some huge maw. I slept like the dead, and awoke the next morning, still slightly stoned, slightly hungover. I literally crawl to the refrigerator and pour a solid glass of water. I am so thirsty that I pour the water into my mouth. My dry eyeballs began to move once again in my head, suddenly lubricated. I turn on my laptop and jump online to IRC. I still have a half a bottle of wine left on the floor. I polish it off. It kicks me in the head for all of my troubles.

Putting on my clothes, I head to the elevator, which is still not working, leaving me with taking the stairs once more to get breakfast/lunch. This will be my morning exercise with a reward. Going downstairs to get my lunch and walking the stair, daily. Maybe even do it in the evening. Depending on how tired I am. No problems at all getting my lunch today. The Black lady is behind the food window this morning. I call her the Meter Maid, because she scrupulously meters out your portions for Breakfast and lunch, making certain that you get no more than is on the food charts. It's an arcane science that she has down pat. She declines my request for a yogurt, but at least she's quick.

I march back upstairs, puffing and wheezing, but without the trial that marked my first days climbing the stairs. I am getting stronger, faster now. I am the Six Million Dollar Man. I stay some part of the morning on IRC then my eyes cross and I climb back into bed, catching up on lost sleep until noon. I wake up dry again, and hit the refrigerator for that solid glass of water. I then get back online, this time on IM and IRC. My world has indeed grown larger.

I wait until sundown to go food shopping. The elevator is working. I buy enough groceries to last me two weeks...especially if I get breakfast and lunch from the cafeteria daily. I let the sun find it's resting place in the West, swallowed by the horizon with me typing away on my laptop, lost in IRC and IM.

CYN calls me an addict.

I call myself one.

Hobobob