Taco Math
Tranquility and despair. Quietly optimistic. Outwardly, I am certain of doom.
Afternoons are normally serene at my house. Today was no exception, save for the few moments when the president of the United States flew directly over my house in his helicopter, the massive displacement of air creating a defining whirl and blare. I live right next to the fairgrounds where he spoke today. Marine One flew over on both the entrance and the exit. During the second pass, the ship for a moment hovered incredibly close to my balcony, with the broadside of the craft facing directly towards me. If Obama had been looking out his window, he almost certainly would have seen me. Perhaps we shared a decidedly insignificant moment in time, after which he returned to running the country and I walked back into my apartment to punch in for another day of my resurrection.
The old boss got in touch today today. He actually wants me to do the freelance work he mentioned when I was released. I thought he was bullshitting. Writing for now, three hour speaking engagement in April. I am compelled to oblige, but not for the money. In fact, unemployment will just deduct any earnings from my benefits. I might as well do the writing pro bono. I'll charge at least a grand and probably more for the speaking event. But honestly, fuck it, I'll just ask him what he thinks is fair. He's always been good about that kind of thing, save for the time he cut my pay by 25%.
I got a clean bill of health, essentially, at my last doctor visit. I can even have a beer now and then (or 25 if it happens to be St. Patrick's Day:)). I have kept up with my exercise regiment and diet with almost religious fervor. It gives me something to do. Blood pressure hovers right around that all-important "Normal" level. People were actually surprise that I worked so hard and so fast to improve my health situation. I'm told that I have an extremely fatalistic vibe. When I pressed and asked for evidence of this, a number of my friends and relatives mentioned that I often make comments like, "I will be dead by the time I'm forty." I think I might need to cut this behavior out. It's childish and unrealistic. Sure, in a lot of ways I'd like to just start my dirt nap now and forgo a lot of this nonsense, but the instinct to live is strong. It's as strong as Luck Skywalker is strong in the force, and that's strong son!
Limbo. That's where I am. I keep telling Marge that I'm going to hate myself for not enjoying this free time more. She says I said that last time I was out of work. Relaxing is not my strong suite. If you know me, you know this to be true. I'm not having a ton of fun in this stint in the "in-between", but I have had a lot of time for reflection. Reflection, you will note, is a critical ingredient for one who wishes to resurrect himself. At some point, relaxing is equally important. I must work on that a little harder.
Afternoons are normally serene at my house. Today was no exception, save for the few moments when the president of the United States flew directly over my house in his helicopter, the massive displacement of air creating a defining whirl and blare. I live right next to the fairgrounds where he spoke today. Marine One flew over on both the entrance and the exit. During the second pass, the ship for a moment hovered incredibly close to my balcony, with the broadside of the craft facing directly towards me. If Obama had been looking out his window, he almost certainly would have seen me. Perhaps we shared a decidedly insignificant moment in time, after which he returned to running the country and I walked back into my apartment to punch in for another day of my resurrection.
The old boss got in touch today today. He actually wants me to do the freelance work he mentioned when I was released. I thought he was bullshitting. Writing for now, three hour speaking engagement in April. I am compelled to oblige, but not for the money. In fact, unemployment will just deduct any earnings from my benefits. I might as well do the writing pro bono. I'll charge at least a grand and probably more for the speaking event. But honestly, fuck it, I'll just ask him what he thinks is fair. He's always been good about that kind of thing, save for the time he cut my pay by 25%.
I got a clean bill of health, essentially, at my last doctor visit. I can even have a beer now and then (or 25 if it happens to be St. Patrick's Day:)). I have kept up with my exercise regiment and diet with almost religious fervor. It gives me something to do. Blood pressure hovers right around that all-important "Normal" level. People were actually surprise that I worked so hard and so fast to improve my health situation. I'm told that I have an extremely fatalistic vibe. When I pressed and asked for evidence of this, a number of my friends and relatives mentioned that I often make comments like, "I will be dead by the time I'm forty." I think I might need to cut this behavior out. It's childish and unrealistic. Sure, in a lot of ways I'd like to just start my dirt nap now and forgo a lot of this nonsense, but the instinct to live is strong. It's as strong as Luck Skywalker is strong in the force, and that's strong son!
Limbo. That's where I am. I keep telling Marge that I'm going to hate myself for not enjoying this free time more. She says I said that last time I was out of work. Relaxing is not my strong suite. If you know me, you know this to be true. I'm not having a ton of fun in this stint in the "in-between", but I have had a lot of time for reflection. Reflection, you will note, is a critical ingredient for one who wishes to resurrect himself. At some point, relaxing is equally important. I must work on that a little harder.