Bowl of Oranges

Last night ended with me drunk playing on a jungle gym with a gentleman friend of mine. I’ve got three days of Buffalo let, must have as many adventures as possible.

Yesterday I stood sweating in my third floor sauna of a room sorting out sweatshirts, and I thought to myself that I was doing the exact same thing last year. Actually for the last four years I have found myself standing in front of opened black garbage bags, and trimming the fat of my wardrobe.

The sweater I borrowed, the shirt I was given, and the skirt that is too baggy now all meet their destiny to be handled by Buffalo’s Goodwill staff. 

I’ve always said I love packing, but this time I am looking at my room with murals and actual furniture and I’m not sure how this process will go, which is why I’m starting two weeks early.

I also listened to The Carpenters the whole time, and while yelling ‘DON’T YOU REMEMBER YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME BAYBAY!’ my dog Roosevelt ran around my heels trying to eat the trash bag I had rolled up to use as a makeshift microphone. Might as well add that I had a few beers for courage to clean my room finally. 

So there I am, singing fuck you songs drunk and sweating, and hoarding all of my comfy sweatshirts because when people aren’t there for you sweatshirts are.

My Jewish coworker informed me today that next Friday he will be waking up for the 10,000th time.

I mention that he’s Jewish because I absolutely love the Judaism.  It’s like how some people like people that dress fancy all the time; I like Jews.

But anyway, not the point. The point is he had it marked on his calender. Usually when John speaks to me I either zone out or roll my eyes all the time because he’s the kind of person that prints out motivational poems for you. What else are you supposed to do other then tear them up and drop the pieces in the recycling bin while he watches? People that are never late, never rude, and stay late after work to ‘finish up a few more things’ make me want to slack off more.

So today while wasting time on Reddit and listening to Nicki Minaj through my headphones I see John turned at me and waving for my attention. I slowly click pause and pull the headphones out.

“So guess what?”

“What’s that, John?”

“Next Friday is going to be my 10,100th day alive!”

“How do you know this?”

“I figured it out a while ago”

“And you marked it in your planner?”

“Well, yeah.”

That’s when I resumed Super Bass. There are people that know these things, there are people that own planners. I have never been one of these people.

It’s not that I’m hating to hate, or just annoyed at the world. Usually once a year I buy a cool slick planner with vain attempts to BE one of those people. Then I realize that it weighs my bag too much, or my dog chews it up and I never buy a replacement. That right there is the difference between my shalomie homie John.

Travel kids smell like dirty hair. They’re easy to talk to and easy to impress with cheap beer and a bike pump. I tend to love them. Since living here I’ve met a few and have started referring to them all as ‘Tom’. Let me tell you about my favorite three who coincidentally enough were actually named Tom.

Tom 1

Tom 1 was coming from nowhere and going nowhere. He wore patched overalls with chains attached to most fabric. There was a chain for a lighter, a chain for a pocket knife, a chain for a cupholder (no shit, he had a portable cupholder). His hair was pink and dreaded into a mohawk and he was a ginger with sunburnt and freckled shoulders. You could hear him coming from down the block and everyone stared at him. If you got the chance to meet him though, as I did, you would learn that he’s actually a very sweet man. I took a long lunch one day and we smoked a spliff and went to the zoo. He liked the unfavored animals, such as the vulture, while I’m strictly there to look at elephants. Stoned and sweaty we walked around with ice cream cones and talked about the feeling of cutting off attachments from yourself, and how easy and hard it is.

Tom 2

I live in a co-operative house and a lot of people from other co-ops couch surf when they’re near the area. This is how Tom 2 came to be a friend. He showed up one weekend with neon green biking shorts on and a goofy handle bar mustache. Another sensitive type, we talked about using the word ‘bitch’, and he vigorously explained how disrespectful most people are in common communication. Its interesting when you think about your vocabulary, what words are vulgar, what words hurt? Why am I hearing myself say these things?

Tom 3

Tom 3 was my favorite, I became quite smitten with this one while he was hanging around. He hails from Kansas City and carries a small guitar around with him named Abilene. The night we met we were at a party and left to climb alleyway fences around downtown to sneak into backyard gardens. These huge houses are just so beautiful from the back and a little trespassing never hurt anyone. We slept outside in a secluded patch of really soft plants of somesort and woke up to watch the sunrise, cold because the temperature had dropped what felt like 20 degrees. We walked around the next day while he busked for gas money to get to Tuscan, or Boston I’m not sure. His bandmate Mikey has a high voice and plays the banjo and I saw them play at a house party a few days later.

Tom the traveler, I’ll see you around.

tap tap tap.

Everyone is speaking so wildly these days, I’m sure my mouth has stretched and my ears are beginning to sag from all the uncertainties everyone has expressed.

My birthday was this weekend, I left the age of 21 as drunk and bitter as I came in to it.

Its the third day of May here and its only 50 degrees, and raining. We’re listening to ‘Imagine’ in the office and the secretary is singing under her breath.

I woke up in my old bed Sunday in my old apartment in familiar arms and wished the hardest I’ve ever wished that this was my life still, that I didn’t have to drive 12 hours back to New York and say goodbye to him again. But the morning only lasted so long, and soon enough I was dressed in the parking lot watching him drive away.

I left the wreck that was made the night before, I left without saying goodbye, I left the door that my dog pawed/chewed two inches off. I left my make up and a shirt and dog food.

I couldn’t stay there any longer, and paid the price later (nothing better than text fighting with friends), so I drove. I threw myself at 70 East and came to six hours into the drive crying listening to Adele.

But this is the choice I made. This is my life here for another three months. So I’m back now, slightly bruised again. I came home at 4am, went to work at 9 and worked till 5. Then found that I couldn’t sit at my house feeling alone so my tumble sister Shea and I went out for a beer or three and talked of adventures, maturity, and mothers.

when I leave your arms

the things that I think of

no need to get over alarmed

I’m coming home

Offices always have a quite hum of printers and monitors that makes me sleepy.

It was so beautiful in New York this weekend that for once I didn’t hate it. My roommates and I basically clamored over each other to get outside for walks, runs, bike rides, and adventures. I can’t remember the last time I sweated. It was awesome. Roosevelt and I went on a two hour trek around the city and for once my little cattle dog was not hyper, and didn’t pull on the leash the entire time. I’m glad she will be able to get out more now!

Ad, William, and myself went to the Falling Whistles Bike Tour dinner to help fund the teams as they bike through the US sharing the stories of DRC. I hope they all arrive in LA safe and sound.

My co-op has a nudity policy now. Nekked.