17 more days.
I took a stroll through the Park at 10:15 pm to sit on the front steps of the illuminated white Capitol Building and watch the bats dance in the air beneath the dim stars of an oddly scented Thursday night. A cop asked me if that was my car parked in the circle, whatever that means, and I said no, and that was the only human contact I had after leaving work. I wanted to test the limit of my fragile heart strings. I succeeded. This is me at my most misplaced. I feel wretchedly incomplete. I need my space back. My car is the closest thing to a home I can count on, and yet I think it hates me. Did I mention the battery died a few nights ago? So much of me wanted to find a patch of isolated grass to lie upon and sleep away the dark hours of a timeless existence. Tomorrow I get paid. Tomorrow I pay more deposit. Tomorrow I struggle to cope with commuting. I can't figure out if I'm overwhelmingly happy with the realignment of my life or simply overwhelmed.
I forfeited to comfort and returned to Carmichael tonight.
I don't want to be here. I want to be in my new room. I want to be 100 steps away from work and I don't want to drive anymore. I hate it. I really do. I'm quickly descending (or ascending) into a state of mind where cars aren't allowed and pedestrians always have the right of way. We don't walk enough in the cities we pretend to call home. We don't stop at 11:00 pm on a Thursday night and admire the architecture of our State Capitol. We don't watch the bats. We just don't.
I do yearn for human connection. I do. We all do. But I have 17 more days before I've got my balance back and until then it's "Hi, how are you?" and "What can I get for you?" My socialization goes as far as taking drink orders and attempting latte art. There are some customers I've bonded with. I'll name-drop just to make myself feel better: Gabby, Drew, Jay, Mark, Chris, Alvaro and Monica, Heather, Dave, Peter. There could be more. It's getting late and my better mind insists I get some sleep. My rebellious fuck-all attitude of late is telling me that sleep is for pussies and still wants that beer it never got to drink. We can thank a too-hopeful heart for that.
Tomorrow is Friday. My Wednesday.
I want to explode. In 17 days, none of this dreadful nothingness will matter.
That last statement sounded a little too suicidal. I don't mean for it to. In a way, however, it will be the end of a Chris Fryer that I've come to know quite well. A Chris Fryer who follows in the currents of others. A Chris Fryer who does as he expects others expect of him. In 17 days I'll be done with that guy. In 17 days I'm outta here.
- Left to Fry
I took a stroll through the Park at 10:15 pm to sit on the front steps of the illuminated white Capitol Building and watch the bats dance in the air beneath the dim stars of an oddly scented Thursday night. A cop asked me if that was my car parked in the circle, whatever that means, and I said no, and that was the only human contact I had after leaving work. I wanted to test the limit of my fragile heart strings. I succeeded. This is me at my most misplaced. I feel wretchedly incomplete. I need my space back. My car is the closest thing to a home I can count on, and yet I think it hates me. Did I mention the battery died a few nights ago? So much of me wanted to find a patch of isolated grass to lie upon and sleep away the dark hours of a timeless existence. Tomorrow I get paid. Tomorrow I pay more deposit. Tomorrow I struggle to cope with commuting. I can't figure out if I'm overwhelmingly happy with the realignment of my life or simply overwhelmed.
I forfeited to comfort and returned to Carmichael tonight.
I don't want to be here. I want to be in my new room. I want to be 100 steps away from work and I don't want to drive anymore. I hate it. I really do. I'm quickly descending (or ascending) into a state of mind where cars aren't allowed and pedestrians always have the right of way. We don't walk enough in the cities we pretend to call home. We don't stop at 11:00 pm on a Thursday night and admire the architecture of our State Capitol. We don't watch the bats. We just don't.
I do yearn for human connection. I do. We all do. But I have 17 more days before I've got my balance back and until then it's "Hi, how are you?" and "What can I get for you?" My socialization goes as far as taking drink orders and attempting latte art. There are some customers I've bonded with. I'll name-drop just to make myself feel better: Gabby, Drew, Jay, Mark, Chris, Alvaro and Monica, Heather, Dave, Peter. There could be more. It's getting late and my better mind insists I get some sleep. My rebellious fuck-all attitude of late is telling me that sleep is for pussies and still wants that beer it never got to drink. We can thank a too-hopeful heart for that.
Tomorrow is Friday. My Wednesday.
I want to explode. In 17 days, none of this dreadful nothingness will matter.
That last statement sounded a little too suicidal. I don't mean for it to. In a way, however, it will be the end of a Chris Fryer that I've come to know quite well. A Chris Fryer who follows in the currents of others. A Chris Fryer who does as he expects others expect of him. In 17 days I'll be done with that guy. In 17 days I'm outta here.
- Left to Fry
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