there's a cat trying to sleep on my floor in spite of the murder by death playing on the stereo my last roommate gave me when he moved out, and i don't totally hate it; the cat, i mean. he belongs to my new roommate, another female, and his name is tito. he's much friendlier than my other roommate's cat, othello (though my friends and i affectionately refer to him as "ihaychu"), and i'm pretty sure i'm going to miss him when he leaves. this new girl is only here until the middle of august because she's working at the landlord's horse farm for the summer. she seems pretty cool so far and i'm looking forward to being forced to get to know someone new. it's a good habit to get into for a hermit like me who could easily be content with a book and a bed every day of the week. for now i'll enjoy their company and the fact that an over-enthusiastic feline greets me every morning in the kitchen with an affectionate head-rub on my shin as i storm towards the front door for my work commute every morning.
lots of animals lately actually. the rabbit towards the end of the road ran out into the street last night. he usually darts out, i slam on the brakes, he runs away from my car along the edge of the road towards a path carved into the weeds, shoots out of site. he's not one for turning around in the face of danger, he'd rather risk being killed if it means following that familiar trail. last week my foreman and i were riding in his truck after an afternoon sunshower and a turtle was crossing the road. if it had been me driving alone i would've pulled over and moved him to safety like the time we were coming back from camping and we saw one on the side of the road. we both agreed to stop and she ran out and rescued it. this recent turtle had no such luck; by the time my boss and i came back down that road the poor little bastard had been reduced to a pile of shattered shell and some pink matter. i felt ashamed for not speaking up for fear of being called a pussy. what do i care?, i already have tattoos of bugs bunny, a tiger lily, and a fucking snowflake. today's encounter with the wild kingdom was probably the most blatant. im riding to work this morning when a bird flies in front of my windshield and continues to fly in the same direction as me for a second before veering off into the wild blue yonder. i saw it for just long enough to see the pointed blue tips of its wings and tail, the distinguishing lines of a swallow. i never see those around here. the only place i really ever saw them was in tattoo form: her shoulder, my tricep. i turned up the radio's appropriate song, lit another cigarette. it made me think a little more than necessary for six-thirty in the morning. she's really gone. i'm really ok with that. or i will be. soon. not that i spend way too much time finding nonexistent meaning in trivial everyday events like animal sightings or anything.
the two guys i work with both really appreciated the father's day cards i mailed them. neither of them embarrassed me at work by bringing it up, they called me in the evening and spoke to me for half an hour about how much it meant that some smartass puerto rican apprentice kid would take the time to write three paragraphs about how much difference some stupid plumber can make in someone's life. i made sure each card was fittingly humorous according to whom it was for, and that the message was clear: i'm glad to have found a couple father figures in an unlikely place, being that my real dad's a psychotic douchebag who's basically disowned me and my stepfather's a lazy alcoholic. i wont get any more specific here, even though i typed the inscriptions up on my computer and have them saved. i don't believe in sharing words that were sealed and meant for once person, there's some kind of sacred trust that goes into licking the strip of dried glue before folding an envelope shut. thats probably why i think its pretty fucked up to publish the letters of some dead famous person. they probably wouldnt have said some of the things they did if they had known some voyeuristic loser was going to comb through every page years later in search of some profound secret. im not a fan of censorship, but i definitely advocate for the flip side of the coin; theres a very real domain that should not be infringed upon, no matter the academic benefits. what a person chooses to reveal to the general public via written word is one thing. to print private thoughts and feelings that were never meant to be exposed to more than a select person, or no one at all, is as bad as raping that writer's corpse. that being said, i am thoroughly enjoying the journals of sylvia plath. ive found so many passages that correspond to random thoughts ive had over the years. we have a lot in common, only she actually killed herself. the one thing i can say in my defense of reading this one is that it was edited by her husband and he omitted parts that might embarrass her or her family. if anyone would have the heart and the knowledge to do that gracefully itd be a loving spouse who only wants to pay tribute to the private thoughts of a deceased author and friend. cant hate on that.
the paychecks were no good again last week for the millionth time. my buddy and i went to work for my old boss whom i still work for on weekends saturday and today since our checks still hadn't cleared and the union hall hadn't told us to go back to work yet. its great working for this guy, if we wind up at his house towards the end of the day he sends me for an eighteen of bud and the three of us drink pretty hard in that afternoon sun while doing some grunt work. beer muscles helped my friend and i move some fucking boulders that we would not have even attempted to lift sober. a few muscles have been sore since then but getting out the aggression was worth it. his daughter and wife both asked me how the ex is today, i told them both that she's now an ex, their reactions were both the same. sorry, ladies, i respect your husband far too much to go there, even though theyre a pleasant family who've watched me mature from eighteen on (yes, i've grown up some). we sat and shot the shit and i drove home half in the bag after promising my boss and his wife that i was good to drive. between that bad habit, the prescription pain killers i sold at work a couple weeks ago, and the tools and copper that mysteriously disappeared from my union job's trailer over the weekend since the checks were no good again and an aggravation tax was due im really starting to feel like quite the two-bit criminal. the self-fulfilling puerto rican prophesy. christ, i had to get a legitimate job to become a crook. eh, those sins mostly fall into that blurry area of white lies, victimless crimes, and eye-for-an-eye justice i suppose. as long as no one gets hurt. i save those crimes for better venues. anyway, we got the call from the hall tonight to go back to work tomorrow. i called my boss and apologized for not being able to help him again tomorrow, he understood.
which is a feeling im starting to forget the satisfaction of. it seems as though every relationship i have right now is strained in some way and there isnt that closeness that was once there with the people i see regularly. that probably means its my own fault, im not one to assume its everyone else and not me. i know ive been somewhat aloof lately and have been hiding in the comfort of my air-conditioned cell/library, but its the only thing thats made me happy these past few weeks. ive been so lonely, but havent really wanted to be around people since im tired of the constant disappointment. i need to open up to someone, not just this keyboard, but the opportunity hasnt presented itself properly. maybe part of me misses those drunken, miserable nights sharing life's greatest secrets and biggest fears after the beers and bullshit. maybe partying and just trying to stay awake long enough for mcgriddles at three in the morning isnt cutting it. well, obviously it isnt. if i cant have someone to wake up next to id at least like to have someone to be able to call after waking from one of those sweaty nightmares. and in the meantime ill continue to drown it all out by working forty-eight-plus hours a week. at least thats somewhat productive.
which is why im so glad im playing music again, its healthy to create. i need to play a show, it was a year this past valentine's day. i miss that rush, that honest half-hour where youre somehow vindicated for whatever it is that led to those songs. someone make that happen.
a girl who doesn't pay for pens, but doesn't steal her style.
who's well-read, but doesn't let you know until after the party.
who sees right through the bullshit air of mystery you try to convey
and knows that there's nothing more telling than what's behind the eyes.
more importantly, who wants to take the time to work the callouses off the lids and knuckles.
good luck.
good talk.
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