Lies and make believe.

"Say…have you seen the blues man?"

 It came out more as a pondering thought, similar to asking me if I smoked. I could feel him rooting around his pockets for a lighter. 

I hesitate, not sure if I wanted to engage in street philosophy. "Yes." I reply, not used to hearing the confidence soar in my voice.

"Where didya see ‘em, by chance?" His query was genuine.  My bottom was grazing the crumb laden cushion of the Yaris, while my mind was yearning for the dialogue.

"Oh, you know," I nonchalantly drawl, "everywhere. He’s all around us." Cue warm smile. 5…4…3…2... I calculate, waiting for the pitch. No one just has conversations just because, right?

"What’s your name?" His eyes, quite intensely cued on my reaction, were soft and genuine. 

"Lola."

 Lola? Was that all I had? Of all the names I fantasize about, that was my best, fake name? As I was silently cursing lack of imagination in name choice, my new hobo friend threw out another inquiry.  

"Lola, have you evah been to Atlanah, Georgia?"

" Hmmmm," as dreamily as I could dredge, "nah, I haven’t. But I’m gonna." 

That seemed to please him. 

Best quote I have read in a while

"...True literature can only exist when it is created, not by diligent and reliable officials, but by madmen, hermits, heretics, dreamers, rebels and skeptics..." 

Yevgeny Zamyatin 

A friend affixed a different quote by this gent to her status update, and I, being intrigued, yearn to discover more about him. 

Prehistoric Laurenation.

I HAVE NO MICROWAVE!

Yes, that's right!

In 2013, I JUST put a frozen dinner in the...wait..the OVEN!!

Yeah, that is correct!

I have succumbed to my frugal ways, and denied my 21st century-self convenience!

A-ha!

Wednesday afternoon.

Jam, eggs, butter-shit. Eggs, butter, jam. Yes.

I'm glad my OCD is more awake than me right now. Clumsily slapping on jam, I already forgot the well-placed order of condiments I had anally slashed off in my mind. The texture of seed and slippery white combined is an unhappy occurrence.

Sigh.

My mind unravels to far away lands...surrounded by short people that could be mistaken for robots. Maybe they are robots. They seem technologically advanced enough. That might already be happening.

A strong, southern female voice interrupted my wanderlust.

"He killed him, he killed him in COLD BLOOD".

Ah. The town cryer is back. Part of me thought she was on hiatus, especially after all that Lucifer talk that was being tossed around two days prior. Usually when one gets to proclaiming about the lord of the underworld, I think it's time for a nap. But honestly, I've really learned a lot from her. I now know that Lucifer can't mess with God's children. And, who ever "he" is, he's now dead. In cold blood.

Reality Show

"You cannot mess with God's children, Lucifer! You make horrible decisions, but the LORD still loves you, baby girl!"

Smells of charred garlic tickled my nose. At this point, I don't know why I bothered roasting brussel sprouts. The 7:16pm showing of "Drunken Evangelicals" was blurring into "Teen Mom: the Torrance edition", and I was no where near done enjoying it. Two smokes left, perfect. I lit the next to last, curious how this "episode" was going to end. The exchange was between two neighbors: an older woman, and a younger female. I was half-hoping it was a May-December relationship. The baby girl brand could really mean anything. As I continued to over analyze the exchange, the smoke alarm hinted loudly that I really should take out the charcoal formally known as brussel sprouts from the oven. 

All the single ladies.

7:48am.

Really?

Deep sighs ricochet off my lungs, reminding me to quit that youthful tobacco habit. I cough hard, knowing that should clear the issue, and make me buy ONE more pack of camels.

8:58am.

Ever since I started Lexapro, water has been the standard on my bedside table. Damn dry mouth.  I've accepted the side effect has been a fucked sleep schedule. My eyes force themselves into R.E.M land with thoughts Bukowski would be proud of.

10:29am

Is that my phone, or did I leave my vibrator on? Again.

11:37am

Should I admit I that I'm trying to prolong the fantasy land I was in for at least 20 more minutes? At least in this faraway land, the boy that I'm infatuated with doesn't tease - it's all give, and I take.

12:16pm

I work in an hour and a half. If I just rinse off, I should be able to get ready in 45 minutes. I think I have a Cliff bar to eat on the way to work.

1:04pm

Dear Febreeze, you've saved me again. I didn't forget about you, Cucumber Melon spritz: your stripper aroma is gonna save me from having to shower - but not without coworkers questioning my whereabouts last night.

1:58pm

Whoever invented Tide pens, gets my mouth around their genitals. Genius!

2:03pm

Made it. Despite my bed head that I have coined, "Beach Wave", everything turned out. Although my pervert colleague has been taking a special interest in me...I think it's gonna be a good day.

Reaching around, an attempt at a cuddle fails. I was better off fantasizing about it. Never thought I was that person, desiring human stimuli. But, here I am. Craving a unattainable feeling. More than not, we explain to ourselves ritualistically, that we are independent souls, floating where we want to be, not necessarily where we should be. Creating a world that has everything we have scoured together for a perfect fantasy, it's destruction is inevitable. We desire things we think we should have, that are "entitled" to us. Leaving that extra bit of sleep in our eyes has made our vision fragmented. Rather than force ourselves to experience people as who they are, we paint a tremendous coating of us on them, and project what we want them to be. Happiness cannot be found within a facade of ourselves.

On a Thursday.

“Wait, bro, I was sayin’ how demonic that chick was I tried sleepin’ wit last night… She put a paper mache goat head on and tried fuckin’ me wit it! Fo’ real, bro! No lie, no lie!” Forgetting to grab what I came for, this conversation makes waiting in line worth it. “nah, bro, she ain’t into Luche Libre shit, she likes, what’s that broads name? My kids are really into it-Dude, Dora the explorah?” This outlandish idea made me close to being the owner of a fitted LA Kings hat. “Nah, dude, you trippin’? Dora ain’t no skeeze bro! She classy grade A shit, not like that hookah.” I tried my best to listen- I was desperate to find out who this “hookah” was, even when the clerk impatiently demanded credit or debit. The misunderstanding that had occurred was likely due to him being desensitized to the CLEARLY genius conversation I was overhearing. The eyeroll reminded me my instinct was correct. “ Seriously tho bro, come over. I got this jacked up video of a alligator ranch, and this guy is wrestling them, and putting his hands in their moufs and shit-oh and I got some Victorias.” Before I could pretend that I forgot to pick up some chewing tobacco, the duo was already half way out the door. “Nah, nah, man. That fucked up goat chick is coming over tonight .”