The Elusivity of Sleep

Bullshit.

Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. I am up until Seven in the morning. Seven in the morning. I finish the blog post, so...I'm not tired, why not search for blog pictures? I do. I don't find spectacular pictures for the blog, but I find some. This in fact takes an hour or more. When I find myself done, it's later, something like five in the morning. I'm still not sleepy, so I work on the Novel. That shit it pretty big. Not bullshitting you. The Carlyle Brothers are back at it again with their zany sense of humor blowing holes in people.

At Seven, or about six thirty, I get up and go outside for the first time today. It is cool, but still nice. I'm out in my flip-flops and heavy jacket, some contrast this morning. Yesterday, or was it last night, I had made some pasta and wanted to put my favorite peas in it, chick peas. I'm there struggling with the heavy duty can opener that I bought that was tough as a tank and was supposed to open everything, but quickly found out it could barely open anything. You know, the can opener that I paid good money for. Very good money for if you measure it by my standards.

Well this wretched bitch is struggling with one of two cans of chick peas and midway around the can the fucker disinte- grates in my hands. Just like that, it comes apart in so many pieces, falling through my fingertips, I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I thought the thing turned into water in my hands. Sonofabitch! This thing can never be re-assembled. It broke apart in three or four places. I had to bend the edge of the can up and shake out the peas to have them in my dinner, or was it breakfast. I dunno.

So, I'm going to Duane Reade, pick up some odds and ends, such as SpermHam and cereal, a can of chick peas...make that two cans, and a can open.... I look around and can't find can openers. I go up and down the aisles several times and can't find can openers. What the fuck. I go to one of the shelving guys, he should know. Hey, where do you keep your can openers? "We don't carry can openers." Waitaminute, let me get this right. You sell canned goods but you don't carry can openers? Isn't that like a prostitute not having condoms?

Well, what do I know? I haven't fucked a prostitute in so long. Maybe they all go bareback now. Oh, yeah, that's right. I fucked whores before. Get over it. Ages ago. In another, another life. It was fun but now it's done. And back then, before AIDS they used condoms to keep from getting pregnant and other STDs less virulent. What am I on this subject for? Oh, cans with no can openers. Go figure.

So I go with my little bit of shit to the counter and there is the mean old bitch. Now how do I describe this car crash THAT LIVES IN MY BUILDING. That's right. I live in an insane asylum, and all of my neighbors are the crackpots of the town. I wonder when I'm going to manifest some psychotic behavior. Hey, maybe I am already. Staying in my room, refusing to go out, only coming out at night. You have to admit that that shit is not normal behavior. Oh no sirree. Oh, I digress, MOB (Mean Old Bitch), this MOB is there in front of me at the counter.

Now the last time I saw her was in the vestibule hallway of the building, walking up and down it's length, so drunk she staggered from wall to opposing wall. She held her finger in the air before her, covered with blood, and went from person to person in the hallway, sticking it into their faces. "See," she slurred. "I cut my finger. " I'm standing at the elevator at this time, waiting on this slow ass motherfucker to come down before I get a face-full of finger. After she showed the last person she staggered towards me, losing her footing and falling, with her shoulder, against the wall.

The elevator door opened to my grateful surprise and I entered in, just before I heard her scream out; "SEE, I CUT MY FINGER!!!" I saw her again. On another occasion, in the vestibule corridor, screaming out obscenities in her drunken, slurred, German accented speech. Calling everyone that walked by every conceivable name in the book. I won't tell you what that nasty bitch called me. I should have given her a right cross, but she probably would have come apart like that can opener in my hands, and i'll be spending the next three to five years in a prison psychiatric ward.

No, fuck her. And fuck her now, holding a fucking conversation the the counter-man who was slowly ringing her up. She and I are the only two in the store and I'm standing here like and idiot while she is holding court, being sweet as pie. This is impossible. I wait longer. Just when I'm about to put my basket down and go home to starve, she shoves off, and leaves me to contend with the slowest cashier that I have ever dealt with. I tell you this motherfucker must have had four speeds....slow, neutral, reverse, and stop. He was so fucking slow with six items that I walked away, put away the basket, walked back, and he was still ringing up shit. What the fuck? Dude, you ring up shit like old people fuck.

Although I did not say this, being the only person in the store, and cause him to reach behind the counter for a five pound bar and crack me over the head with it, but shit, I came close. While I'm STILL WAITING though I ask him, nicely at first, do they have can openers? He stops. Yep, he actually stops. I told you he had four speeds. "No, in fact we don't." Let me ask you, I DO say, what good is a store that sells cans but don't carry can openers, can you tell me that? He snatched the receipt away from the cash register and hands it to me. I take it and walk out with my bag.

I get bagels and go home, passing the Mean O Bitch in the street, staggering home, or wherever the fuck she was going. I get upstairs and make myself a bowl of cereal and milk. I wolf that shit down and no sooner had I done so, my eyes grew heavy. Yep, I have the antidote for staying up all night long. Eating. It has the reverse effect if you are not very tired. But if you're overtired, eat. As soon as you finish you'll feel the effects of drowsiness like a drug.

Your lights will go out and you'll reach Nirvana.

Hobobob