Now i don't want to sound like an ungrateful ass slammin' jerk, but (and ya, i said ass slammin') living at home, in the mountains, in Southern California, isn't exactly my cup of tea. Sure, obvious, asshole. I never thought it would be. But these last 6 (shit, six already?) fuck ya, these last six months weren't as mind-cramping as I had originally imagined. I remembered my formative years, thinking I would be like a caged freak, succulently staring out as if you had dehydrated corn and whey pebbles in yr hand. And if I were an ostrich, or even worse, a goat. Well, those zoo-ish verandas were the major components of imaginary play I engaged in back in April and May, the months where I had made my momentary life descisions.
June was hard, I admit. I missed my friends almost as much as when I had first moved to the bay area for uh, ya, college. Booo. Anyway, not that my friends were any less sweet in my memory, only because I've moved from friends before and its not really that bad, and really it had already started before I left anyway. NO, but my point was this, in June I was sad.
In July, I was sad. My birthday wasn't spent making a fool out of myself, or getting kicked out of bars, or even raising the decibal level of my voice. It was spent at home, quiet, refined, like when I was 13. I almost said 4, but I was a rockin', bratty kid who threw tantrums if not first to hit the pinata. Anyway, this wasn't the point either!
In August, things were seeming regular.
I don't remember the rest because i think it really is just the same as I feel now. A little bored, a little restless, a little wanting of crazy times and wild oats. I miss oats. My soul has a yearning for some unexpected regularity. And I say that with the sweetest intentions.
OKAY OKAY OKAY, i ramble, sure. Well fuck, man, give me some time. Give me some breathing room.
So today I came home to a very unsettling surprise. We have some houseguests. Some very, very longterm houseguests. I no longer want to be a houseguest. My mother has this friend, who has this daughter, who has this chiquaqua. Not many people have had the pleasure of ever meeting one of my mother's "friends". Well, hmmm. I almost feel guilty for being such an asshole.
She was asking me if I like dogs. I said no. Only my dog, Pepper.
Now, here, here, I actually sort of don't like pepper. His breath is fucking stank, like he was licking the undertail of a sewer rat. And he'll stare at you while you eat dinner and breathe that nasty breath into your face. Then you'll say "get away, stinkdog." but he'll only get closer. Then when you socially acceptably slap his snout, he'll make this cowering face of an abused child in the back of a closet. Then you feel like a deadbeat alcoholic father who once used his family's food stamps as toilet paper. Even when there was clearly toilet paper, just out of reach under the sink. No, but my point, like i said is that I don't like dogs, especially strangers' dogs, especially small barky dogs, especially coddled, sweater wearing, co-bath and shower buddy dogs. I said no, then I asked if she's ever taken a bath or shower with the dog. In my own stupid mind, the answer to this question provides the much necessary proof of whether or not I need to start using toilet seat covers in my own fucking house. God damn, I feel like a Jerk.
We have houseguests. They will be here for a few months. I haven't enough to make it on my own just yet. After a few minutes of the afternoon experience, I retired into the garage. Here, I can listen to music. Here, I can make attempts at exercise. I made myself a promise. I said, unless I fulfill the following list of accomplishments, I can not leave this place. After evaluating their realisticisity (come on, wouldn't that be a "radical" word?), I gave the timeline until March 30th.
Come March 30th, I will be leaving.
I saw that movie Houseguest, starring the aboved titled celebrity. And I liked it.
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