Drifting

Drifting off to sleep on a Friday afternoon....all the ambition I had to mow the lawn, grill chicken, cut my hair...its passed on. Leached out of my back and into the cushions of the couch, from where it flowed down through the floor, oozed through the foundation, and contributed to the patch of dead grass in the front yard. Its my Sunday night-tomorrow begins a whirlwind weekend of two 12-hour days of work, followed by starting a new job 7 AM Monday.

I bought The Rum Diary this afternoon, by Hunter S Thompson. I rode my deathtrap Harley home from the fashionable nationwide-chain bookstore with this anthemous salute to those who thumb their nose at regular people stuffed between my sweaty back and my Levi's. Falling asleep with it carefully pitching a tent of sweaty discontent on my chest certainly aided and abetted the fleeing of responsible thought from my body. And so here I sit, debating the various ways the evening could progress. I imagine, if I can muster the might to overcome the mental anguish certain to ensue afterward, I will commence with laborious adult duties at some point in the nearish future. However, I happen to know for certain there's a documentary on Lead Belly hidden inside Netflix, cold beer in the fridge, and both the marinating chicken and the growing grass will certainly still be waiting when I get to them.

The moral of the story? There's no moral! There's no story, when you investigate the skeleton of the thing. Its a jumble of words, organized to look like something at quick glance, but with adjusted lenses and red marking pen in hand, it crumbles like Jimi's castle made of sand. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The invention of comfortable furniture was a turning point in the collective productivity of America. That, and junk food. Or television. One's the chicken, one's the egg.