An Illusion Of Comfort.
The road trip to Las Vegas never did happen. My darling Avis Rent-A-Car agent, Maggie apologized as if it were her fault. Somehow a credit agency halted the rental agency from loaning me an automobile despite the fact I had just rented and returned an automobile two days prior. It was somewhat disappointing, but Flores and I used our newfound wealth to invest in substantial amounts of grocery.
The last few days Joe has been in San Francisco and I started a routine of loud music and thinking out loud. I began talking to myself into a lot of things; “I need a haircut, at least a trim,” “I should check on why in the heck a credit agency denied me…I should try to lease an automobile,” “should I renew my contract and stay in New Mexico longer?”
My thoughts were so random these last few days that it would be safe to say that any judgments I have made were questionable at best. Lori said that my life is like a sitcom, and that all my problems may be resolved in twenty-two minutes…after commercials.
I am already restless of holiday. Not being preoccupied gives me too much opportunity to resent my existence. There is a sinking suspicion that any depository I had of good karma has all but run dry. And I am very perplexed lately, which I assume has something to do with my birthday approaching. I really bloody hate my birthday; it has become an annual reminder of my mediocracy.
This morning I biked with Flores up to his worksite in Tramway. It was so cold that Flores’ sweat condensation became ice on top his hoodie. I was ill prepared (per usual in cold weather it seems) and lost all feeling in my feet and hands by the time we reached the Sandia Mountains. Then I biked home and felt every small gust of wind shredding through my neglectable windbreak jacket. The adventure really clamored further respect for Flores. Because no matter how tough my morning commute may be, it will never be as epic.
My sitcom feels far too lengthy.