Today was sledge hammering my barricade open and running some errands. I was turning into a shut in and it felt good to walk around telegraph, bumping slow walking fools out of my way, dodging petitions and feeling some much needed sun. Fuck anxiety: I'm buying some new fucking shirts.
I had it pretty together in AA until I was next in line and some fool in front of me was, i don't know, trying to negotiate a hostile takeover of Nabisco with their fucking ATM card or something. What I mean is this: They were taking a really long ass time to purchase their goods. The line was getting long and - props for me for getting out of the house - but the crowd was starting to turn and naturally my ears started buzzing and sweat started pouring. I made it out, obviously, alive.
I only lost my cool once: Dude said "that will be $114" and I did, like, a "REALLY?". I got it together pretty quick though. Sometimes I forget I'm PAYING for the uncomfortable atmosphere.
Around 9pm that thing happened where every song playing on my stereo decided to cater it's lyrics specifically to my situation. Everyone knows once it starts - it's hella on. I'll bend the lyrics to "ice ice baby" so somehow it's a metaphor for whatever sad ass thing I'm feeling if I have to. (NOTE: As I'm writing this "Getting Better" by the fucking Beatles just came on... Touché universe.)
Off to an eviction party near the Ashby BART. I've always thought eviction parties were the best kind of parties. There's always this "steer it into the sun" mood. Endings and new starts etc. My cousin recently went to a divorce party and said they put eviction parties to shame. I could see that. Any fool awesome enough to throw a party in celebration of a failed marriage probably knows what's up when it comes to getting fucked up.
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