Everyone Could Use An LA Monday...

I woke up at 10 today, a solid 10 hours of sleep after putting together a string of 4,6,3,6,4. The culprits, well... some of the usual suspects, some new ones. Certainly still Kim and Val. There's a new old one called Billy Bambino that's contributed. Then there's the Olympics and my spending 5 hours a night glued and weeping...

Trying to devise plots to propose Shawn Johnson to be my honorary little sister. Because she's sensational...that stare. I also believe her to be raised by wolves.

Let me take a breath, pause, cause what's comin' here ain't petty...

Two days ago, I told a girl...something. I said something to her. Four letter word. And it was easy. And I don't know how it happened. And I can't even begin to address the trouble in such things.

...

So today, my LA Monday:

I sped through chapters of Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, packaged it up, sent it back to the Netflix home base with Waterhorse: Legend of the Deep because I haven't used my fucking account in over a month and could no longer handle the feeling of stale films to exist in my abode.

I ran through the bank, picked up three rolls of quarters for laundry, made a cash deposit into a savings account I've not so subtlety titled, "Brazil."

I washed the filth from my car...usually a metaphor for something bigger.

I skimmed The Pillowman after reading The Lieutenant of Inishmore after forming a fascination for Martin McDonagh after falling for In Bruges last week after falling for it months ago.

Laundry.

I ate Oreos with a glass of milk, remembered what childhood felt like.

I shopped online.

I sketched out a tattoo, plotted.

I made a new spin playlist because I now teach the fanatically fit at Equinox and because the feeling of 80 constant and judgmental eyes is a powerful and refreshing thing to suffer.

I wrote a blog.

...

I'll go to work. I'll endure and endure and endure and endure.

I'll say goodbye and see someone off.

I'll come home, close my door, click the lock and stand there, listening to the pumping air conditioner and the silence of my apartment. I'll close my eyes and not move, circling, thinking of leaving thinking of staying. I'll make a phone call. I'll sit, stand, sit, stand. I'll pace. 125 minutes will pass. I'll calm down, decide to trap myself, to keep myself there...here. I'll wonder what's coming, hoping for the best, prepping for the worst. I'll fight myself, set my alarm for 5:56 and the next thing I know, I'm there...red lights blazing from that clock. Blazing, blazing, blazing. It screams at me. Sometimes, I scream back.