Dantrums

Today I woke up, looked at the clock: eight something. Someone in the shower. It's too early. My alarm is set for 10:38. I wake up again at nine something. I've had seven hours of sleep but want more. I lie waiting to fall back asleep but it's not happening--- alcohol forces me awake early. I rise at ten, only slightly hungover from celebrating Steph's birthday. I want coffee so I shuffle slowly into the cold kitchen and get the beans out of the freezer, grind them, start the machine. I come back into my room and stare at the bureau for a second, still half asleep, and finally remember the bureau has clothes in it, and what I want to do next is get dressed. I put on track pants, a hoodie and white socks and put lots of cream and lots of sugar in the coffee, pop a sesame bagel in the toaster, and call Mike. He's at work and wants me to call people for a get together Friday. I call other people, most at work, and leave messages. I reach Tim. "What's up buddy?" I tell him. "Cool buddy." Jason calls me back. He can come. I brag to him that I somehow got Yankees-Sox tickets for the Sunday night game, Matsuzaka starting. "You lucky son of a bitch!" "Yes," I crowed, "I don't know how I did it!" My mother and brother call later in the day and when they ask what's up I tell them, "I don't know how I did it!" After I eat the bagel I fuck around on espn.com, looking mostly at tennis results from the Monte Carlo tournament. Federer and Nadal might meet in the final. This makes me very excited. I start watching the Red Sox around one. I want to get stoned but can't because I'm supposed to have a date tonight. I would like to be fresh. Plus it makes your eyes look less than sexy. Anyways I eat leftover ribs for lunch and then some pasta with zuchini. The Red Sox come back to win on a Manny homer and an Alex Cora triple and I let out a few "whoo!"s and "yeah!"s into the apartment. The game ends: Sox 5-3. It's now 3:50. I channel surf for a bit but feel like taking a nap. I get up off the couch and go to bed. I do not have to go to work today.

I sleep until the alarm goes off at 6:38. I'm still so tired. My body feels like I did smoke and this strikes me as unfair. I get up just before seven, shuffle to the fridge and grab a coke. Steph is home. She's sitting out on the porch smoking a cigarette. I go out and say, "I haven't been outside yet today." She says, "Awesome." I say, "No it's not so cool...although the Red Sox game was really good." Kim comes home from the gym and takes a shower and shows me her new glasses, which I didn't like at first but have quickly come around to. They're actually quite cute. "Seeing is so nice!" My date might have to cancel. I just want to know either way because if he's not coming over I'll just get high and hang out in the apartment a little more. I have no problem with that. I would just like to know. He calls at 9:30 and cancels. Before I smoke and the girls leave for a show I cry melodramatically, "I'm going to cut my penis off! It's apparently of no use to me!" The girls leave. I try to watch South Park but I've watched enough tv today. The girls return. They forgot to the take the jaeger shots they'd poured for themselves. They shoot and leave again.

The pot inspires an idea: Write about this decent, unremarkable day. There might be some sort of hidden lesson, something poetic in the mundane, but as I'm writing I realize of course there is not. There is just this list, really, of movements from room to room (and there is not even much of that). This whole entry could have been written as an outline or with bullet points. It's just another day in which I added new things to to-do lists and crossed a couple off, and to the lingering suspicion that I should expect more from my myself than this, another part of myself says, Fuck it: Today really was alright. I'm not sure which part is right or whether I should even be having the debate in the first place.