Disjointed. With rain.

2002-07-09 - 2:47 a.m.

I'm feeling tired and mellow and its raining outside.

I wrote some fiction just a few minutes ago on my mystery site that will one day be revealed, except I feel it's crappy writing. I'll look at it tomorrow and bring down a real verdict, as well as the hope it gets better.

Hope you like fantasy.

Pookie was sad today. And I feel like writing grade-three style declarative sentences. I'll try to avoid that.

I had some stuff to say, but I can't really remember any of it. I got $100 from my dad. It's a cheque, in part, I think, because he likes to know when I cash it. It means I'm alive. It was a birthday present.

I still haven't called my parents. At all. Not good.

A friend of Pookie's is coming up to visit from Halifax in a week or two.

A friend of mine, a marketting student, wants to buy a car and work for a big corporation, and we can barely talk about anything other than the Simpsons and drinking, and trading funny, snarky quips, because he tunes everything else out. I'm convinced he has issues. Not me, though.

It's still raining, and I like that. Pookie's sadness has only infected me marginally, just enough for me to look on the world feeling vaguely amused, disconnected...the world is someone else's story.

Weird.

And to complete the rambliness, complete strangers came into the house today. We forgot that they had to change the gas meter, so the house was slum-quality pig sty. The cat sheds in black clumps, and so the carpet looks dirtier than it is. And I was sitting, naked, eating beans when the guy came to the open door (open 'cause it's hot). The couch was in the way, but being naked and eating beans amidst a mess and old Burger King garbage is not the way I want to greet strangers.

And walking to work today, there was a tall black man in good shape but without a shirt, shouting "papa" or "baba" at no one, waving his arms around and walking into moving traffic, wandering to the yellow line, and then weaving back to the sidewalk. At one point he was fixated on me and all I could do was swirve out of the way. I'm sure he was on drugs. And I feel guilty for all the justifications I can think of to have avoided him.

I couldn't be late for work.

Someone else had probably called the police.

He might be dangerous.

It's none of my business.

I wouldn't know what to do.

He'll be okay once he comes down.

He might want to follow me.

And so he's either okay or not, and I may have had a role to play in the outcome.

Cheers,

The Magus

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