Smaller Than My Dick for Three Dollars
I had a bad case of insomnia again. My eternally nocternal cats, had more sleep than I did last night. I know this for certain since, I heard one of them snore and the other bat away some imaginary dog(or whatever a cat dreams in fear of when they live entirely indoors?) in her dream. I saw them sleep, as I looked at the ceiling why couldn't I get my nightly visit from the Sandman? The cat's tail slapped me in my face… twice.
I moved from the bedroom to the love-seat in the living room. I like to sleep there from time to time. I don't understand it but it's comfortable to actually just lay there with your feet dangling from the end. Still no sleep. Gods of Hellfire and Plastic Surgery looked down upon me in contempt and laughed at, a cat resting between me knees and another on my chest as the whiskers made their way into my nostrils. Tickling me in a way that leaves me wondering if sleep was just propaganda left by lazy people.
The Amish in Pennsylvania were all snuggled in their electric blankets as I looked at the ceiling some more. Listening to a cat snore, one breathe and the fans creek. The screen saver from the computer danced in a defined space. Giving the room the feel of slither as I laid in bed too stubborn to know that sleep this point would be useless since my alarm was due to go off in less than an hour.
So I laid there, looking at what would be stars in the splinters, but were just the left overs from the hippies that celebrated peace, love and happiness before getting a job for Meryll Linch. My cosmos wasn't created by burned out stars, but by burnt outs hoping to be stars.
I slowly moved out of the blankets not to wake my cats as they laid there dreaming whatever cats dream of. The genetic memory of fish, or is just the occasional cockroach that they somehow manage to kill and leave hidden underneath my fan? Maybe their dreams manifest the menthol Malbroro butts that I find in my bedroom? I crept out as cautiously as they jump from the floor to the food dish. I stumble a few steps to the kitchen before my bladder makes me turn around to the bathroom.
The cooler is still on, I forgot that I left it on after making tacos last night. Grease fried hamburger meat wrapped by a corn tortilla, covered in cheese and hot sauce. Enough to give almost anyone heartburn for a week. Sitting in the bathroom as my cats slept on the love seat that I thought that I was destined to dream about the dancing lights of pins and sirens that sing pantomime D minor. I sit shivering and shitting. A combination that surprisingly doesn't mix at all.
Five rolls around and I figure it's late enough to run and get coffee. If I walk slowly and pace myself I can make it to the closest coffee house. Pacing myself at this hour means walking slower than usual. Means walking a mile in thirty minutes. No sleep, some good music, it was no problem. I must have looked like a zombie from Dawn of the Dead(the original not the remake.)
As I got to the coffeehouse, one of the few baristas that know my name, rather than call me Tepid, looked as dead as I did. "insomnia?" "grunt," "Fun huh?" "grunt," "yeah the usual," "grunt?" "No thank you."
I stared at the computer for thirty minutes. Trying to understand the complexities of the dancing screen. I felt like a stoner. The sirens' song was singing a song to me. I was lost in their gaze. I bumped the mouse and it reveled my way out. The password display.
For another hour I still there infront of the computer slowly slipping on the life juice of an quad shot Tepid Americano. It wasn't until my coworker maritzaq7 came in and suggested getting breakfast that my head switched out of neutral.
Waiting in line to get money out of the ATM, I noticed old lady perfume. The same perfume that every kid has at one point in time bought for their mothers for collected change that we found from assorted places. It made me make that face that is revered for the "saved." Those that tell you that you're going to Los Angeles for all eternity unless you change your wicked ways. If my brain wasn't three shades to being fried, I'd cal my mom and tell her that I smelled something that reminded me of her. But at seven in the morning, I think that my mom would ask where I'm getting my drugs from.
I ordered a burrito. Chorizo, potatoes and cheese. Simple little thing, easy to make, a little harder when you cook it like they do at the Student Union. This morning, I had the one person that I would never want to prepare a meal. Someone who's idea of cooking involves a microwave and ramen noodles. Between maritzaq7's sandwich and my burrito, there was much to be desired.
For a little over three dollars, there was a burrito that was smaller than my dick. I almost made that comment to him. There was a time, not to long ago, when the breakfast burrito was large enough to break the tortilla.
It was also a dollar cheaper and didn't taste like skid-mark underwear death. I guess this is what they call progress. Fuckers. I had to buy a Chicken Fried Steak and biscuits and gravy just so I would feel full.
Watching this kid make the burrito was almost comedic. I'd never seen anyone so afraid of using a spatula. A cut here and a cut there, spaced out by time to have children and see my own grandchild bear their children. Another cut comes down and repeats all over again.
Fuck, I need coffee.
I moved from the bedroom to the love-seat in the living room. I like to sleep there from time to time. I don't understand it but it's comfortable to actually just lay there with your feet dangling from the end. Still no sleep. Gods of Hellfire and Plastic Surgery looked down upon me in contempt and laughed at, a cat resting between me knees and another on my chest as the whiskers made their way into my nostrils. Tickling me in a way that leaves me wondering if sleep was just propaganda left by lazy people.
The Amish in Pennsylvania were all snuggled in their electric blankets as I looked at the ceiling some more. Listening to a cat snore, one breathe and the fans creek. The screen saver from the computer danced in a defined space. Giving the room the feel of slither as I laid in bed too stubborn to know that sleep this point would be useless since my alarm was due to go off in less than an hour.
So I laid there, looking at what would be stars in the splinters, but were just the left overs from the hippies that celebrated peace, love and happiness before getting a job for Meryll Linch. My cosmos wasn't created by burned out stars, but by burnt outs hoping to be stars.
I slowly moved out of the blankets not to wake my cats as they laid there dreaming whatever cats dream of. The genetic memory of fish, or is just the occasional cockroach that they somehow manage to kill and leave hidden underneath my fan? Maybe their dreams manifest the menthol Malbroro butts that I find in my bedroom? I crept out as cautiously as they jump from the floor to the food dish. I stumble a few steps to the kitchen before my bladder makes me turn around to the bathroom.
The cooler is still on, I forgot that I left it on after making tacos last night. Grease fried hamburger meat wrapped by a corn tortilla, covered in cheese and hot sauce. Enough to give almost anyone heartburn for a week. Sitting in the bathroom as my cats slept on the love seat that I thought that I was destined to dream about the dancing lights of pins and sirens that sing pantomime D minor. I sit shivering and shitting. A combination that surprisingly doesn't mix at all.
Five rolls around and I figure it's late enough to run and get coffee. If I walk slowly and pace myself I can make it to the closest coffee house. Pacing myself at this hour means walking slower than usual. Means walking a mile in thirty minutes. No sleep, some good music, it was no problem. I must have looked like a zombie from Dawn of the Dead(the original not the remake.)
As I got to the coffeehouse, one of the few baristas that know my name, rather than call me Tepid, looked as dead as I did. "insomnia?" "grunt," "Fun huh?" "grunt," "yeah the usual," "grunt?" "No thank you."
I stared at the computer for thirty minutes. Trying to understand the complexities of the dancing screen. I felt like a stoner. The sirens' song was singing a song to me. I was lost in their gaze. I bumped the mouse and it reveled my way out. The password display.
For another hour I still there infront of the computer slowly slipping on the life juice of an quad shot Tepid Americano. It wasn't until my coworker maritzaq7 came in and suggested getting breakfast that my head switched out of neutral.
Waiting in line to get money out of the ATM, I noticed old lady perfume. The same perfume that every kid has at one point in time bought for their mothers for collected change that we found from assorted places. It made me make that face that is revered for the "saved." Those that tell you that you're going to Los Angeles for all eternity unless you change your wicked ways. If my brain wasn't three shades to being fried, I'd cal my mom and tell her that I smelled something that reminded me of her. But at seven in the morning, I think that my mom would ask where I'm getting my drugs from.
I ordered a burrito. Chorizo, potatoes and cheese. Simple little thing, easy to make, a little harder when you cook it like they do at the Student Union. This morning, I had the one person that I would never want to prepare a meal. Someone who's idea of cooking involves a microwave and ramen noodles. Between maritzaq7's sandwich and my burrito, there was much to be desired.
For a little over three dollars, there was a burrito that was smaller than my dick. I almost made that comment to him. There was a time, not to long ago, when the breakfast burrito was large enough to break the tortilla.
It was also a dollar cheaper and didn't taste like skid-mark underwear death. I guess this is what they call progress. Fuckers. I had to buy a Chicken Fried Steak and biscuits and gravy just so I would feel full.
Watching this kid make the burrito was almost comedic. I'd never seen anyone so afraid of using a spatula. A cut here and a cut there, spaced out by time to have children and see my own grandchild bear their children. Another cut comes down and repeats all over again.
Fuck, I need coffee.