The only dream left worth believing starts with animal shapes
What does it reveal about your psyche when you actually like days like this? I know, I missed my meteorological calling, insisting instead on reducing myself to the most pedestrian things, like talking about the weather. But really: these days are more comforting, now; there’s nothing to really be won in them. Because it’s rainy and horrible, so how can you waste this day? It’s the lowest bar possible, where lying in bed all day is acceptable, because hey, man: it’s fucking horrendous out. Luckily, I have things to “entertain” me, some vague set list of things that I find acceptable, although I have to admit that I’m cultivating some sort of adult onset ADD. It’s all the garish imagery, the flashing lights, and aisles of grocery marts that I’ll blame it on. More and more now, I just can’t pay attention. It’s the fasted pace montage of modern day living, and it wears you down. If you’re talking to me, I may just wander off mid-conversation, being staunchly reminded, and grounded with the massive chagrin that has me apologizing, and saying, I’ve got the check, please. It’s not that what you’re telling me is boring, necessarily, it’s just that I’ve been hanging out in the grocery store, and what, really, is going to top that particular experience, in terms of pure and unquantifiable consumer experience? I could get a job in there, I guess. Grocery Packers, the local store is hiring. It was my first job of all time, actually. A cardboard caricature I made of it in art class, in the ninth grade. What it features, basically, is me standing there, with a horrible mock and long hair, wearing the traditional dork smock they insisted you wear. It was, probably, the worst job ever.

Sometimes they would let you go out of doors, to round up grocery carts, where you could sneak a cigarette and hustle a ride in a grocery cart, narrowly averting a customer’s car. Maybe they would take me back, along side the mentally handicapped people they have in there now. Those people seem to like it OK. I would get to know the customers, say hello as I deposit your lifestyle items neatly into a plastic bag. When the lights would become blindingly neon and begin giving you a spaced-look, they could send me outside. Hurtle myself across the lot in a grocery cart, where I would crash into a patron of ye olde store, busting and irrevocably damaging their knee cap, where I would have to spend the rest of my existence paying for their hospital bills. They would work it out with the store, and as penance for things done wrong in another life, I would have to serve out the eternity of all time by working at the store. By this time the lights indoors would become blindly neon, and I would cultivate an uncomfortable resemblance to my fellow handicap employees. My ADD would only worsen and the result would be more chagrin and horrible blog entries and future embarrassment. I had better get back to the drawing board, or whatever you call it. My drawing skills evidently need some honing.