The lock with which I secure my bike takes a key. It never wants to close. Last night, having pedaled 20 minutes to a bar, I struggled with it. 'Twas then I realized I'd forgotten the key, and money. Then — then only — I was thankful that it was so stubborn.

At the B&K today, I sat next to someone who really stinks. Like, B.O. + diet of bottom-feeding crustaceans and the fattiest of porks + overactive sweat gland + no wife/girlfriend/prospects. He's gone now, but his stink is just lingering. How does anyone get to smelling that badly? How do they not know?

Sentimental Sunday

The one thing I'd like to talk about is a person that I saw Friday night.

My duties wrapped up at an unprecedented 7:30 p.m. on that particular night. Feeling the loss of equilibrium that comes with having nothing to do, I stopped by the grocery store and picked up dinner. By the time I'd finished cooking and eating dinner it was 9 p.m. I was still bored. So, I decided to give this town another try* and grab a beer outdoors.

At one particular place, Snug Harbor it's called (it's not a gay bar, though I think it sounds like it would be), some acquaintances remembered me from the last time I'd patronized the establishment.

"Just grab you a beer and sit on down!" said the group of four. And I followed their suggestion.

So we were talking a bit, singing along with the kareokeing. And that's when I saw her (or should I say him). A man in full-on drag sat confident, poised, dignified and obvious at the bar among all sorts of hope-crushed regulars, young&crazy marines, young&crazy marine wives and regular local kids. It didn't seem like she knew anyone; she sat alone. She exchanged friendly and happy faces with the other patrons. She made social talk, but didn't cause a "scene" of any kind. Her manly muscles bulged from her fuscia cocktail dress. Her five o'clock shadow was quite noticeable from underneath her rouge. I'm not sure if she was wearing a long, brunette wig or what sort of drink she'd ordered. From her mere presence, I was taken aback for this reason:

She was comfortable. Since I stepped foot in this town, I've felt uncomfortable. I've felt like I was the outcast. I was the weirdo. I was the rejected party unable to fit in. Granted, these feelings are somewhat psychosomatic; I know that I project these feelings of inadequacy with background. Though, as long as I've been here these feelings were merited through the fact that I've seen no one weirder than me. Well, that's no longer true.

So what now? I guess a good bit of business-as-usual will commence. Though I will take solace in the fact that (should've figured this long ago) I'm not the only person with bad feelings toward this town. 

Everyone! In the words of the owner of the laundromat at which I now currently sit typing, "Enjoy this beautiful day!"

Angelina Bro-lie and I will head to Will-ville before long for the sole purpose of collecting items to create: pies, trail mix bars, holiday feast. We'll probably grab some expensive beers at an expensive bar, too. ... Something to look forward to. But we won't linger; that's Ms. Starchild's turf now.

I'll be making another try to leave this awful town. This time around, I'm aiming pretty high. Please, everyone, if you're reading now, envision me having a beautiful life in this locale. Without getting my hopes up too much, I'm doing the same. ... all I hope for is a callback.

Here's a little ditty I dug up from the past. You could say the same thing about how I feel today, except that I'd probably be wracked with guilt about the entire thing. I'd probably not acknowledge her. ... I hate it all. I have to escape as soon as possible.

The Wednesday Headache

In a dream last night, Jim Morrison and I met with a smile, strong handshake. He offered to record a song as I played, which was CCR's "Bad Moon." Later, he asked "Wind-up girl?", asking whether I knew the song. "No." "Hmm," he said, "Good song title, ... for future use."

Co-worker Mr. Sports-Junior killed a mouse earlier in the week. Thereafter, he relieved himself of his responsibility to dispose of the body, yet will proudly accept "Thank You!"s for it's demise. As I cleaned his mess, I worried about his upbringing — one that'd allow decomposing animals indoors to be OK.

A friend to Ms. Starchild e-mailed me today asking whether I'd be interested in buying her auto. I replied with a no thank you, which included a detail about my current transportation. Point: I'm so obsessed with Ms. Starchild that I wonder about whether she knows about my transportation now.

I've revived The Wednesday Headache today, on Thursday, because I've a headache. Breathing in all that death from the dead mouse probably did it; either that, or the current state of my life (ironic conclusion). As your life unfolds, keep a sad and lonely little soul in your thoughts (mine).

Sentimental Sunday [cup half full]

While riding my bike last night, I put on both my gloves without stopping or slowing down.

Sentimental Sunday [cup half empty]

Last night, my friend Mr. Slapphappy Chef canceled our plans for the evening. Seems that the brake lights on his car had failed sometime during the week, and would no doubt generate attention from law enforcement officials during nighttime hours in transit. 

I'd planned to try my luck at raising self esteem in a more hospitable locale, namely S-boro, which's about 30 minutes away. Though, without transportation, and with a strong desire to leave the inside of my apartment (and namely my brother's company) that particular last night, I tried to indulge in this city. Last night's attempt was as fruitless as all those before it. It was more expensive than it should've been, and my self esteem was given another warranted demerit.