A day off-planet

It's a day off from handing out flyers at the shop, with no other work lined up. There are a thousand things that need to be done here at the apartment where Mierda is painted on the wall — mail must be answered, zine orders must be filled, and the last week of half-written diary entries must be typed, but I have no desire to do any of that. 

Instead I'm sitting in my semi-messy room, and sitting, and sitting, and sitting in my semi-messy room. It's pleasant. I'm not reading anything, not watching TV, not talking with Pike, just sitting. Staring out the bay window. Watching roaches crawl across the ceiling. Observing the extreme oddity of my big toenails. What a glorious day of nothing this is turning out to be.

It's not zen-induced or drug-induced, only Doug-induced. Screw the mail, screw the zine, screw you, I'm sitting here, that's all, and enjoying it. It's my day off, and it might as well be a day off-planet. It's nice. People should do nothing more often.

♦ ♦ ♦

OK, it's a little later, and I've gotten myself together enough to walk to the Rainbow store, where I bought marmalade and found this posted on their hippie community bulletin board:

Please! Do not use such terms as 'dog' or 'cat' in your postings. These creatures are very sensitive to their submissive status in our system. Please use the terms 'canine-American' and 'feline-American' instead. Thank you.

♦ ♦ ♦

Making myself marmalade toast as an early dinner, my near-sighted eyes noticed a dozen very tiny spiders rappelling from the ceiling onto the clean plates in the dishrack. Each spider, legs and all, is about the size of a pinhead (meaning the head of a pin, not Zippy). But — 

Pike's girlfriend is visiting, and she pleaded with Pike who then pleaded with me not to kill 'em with Black Flag spray. She even quoted Lennon at me: "All we're saying is give peace a chance."

Instead of killing them, she knocked the spiders down with a broom, which is very green, very Lennon, but also kinda dumb. These spiders rappel down from the ceiling — that's their instinctive mission in life. They climb up from the floor to the ceiling, and then descend again, spinning webs as they do. They're not going to give up and go away just because she knocked them down — the spiders will be back on the ceiling tomorrow, dropping down to the dishes below.

I'm easy, though. If Pike and his ladyfriend want to co-exist with the spiders, no worries. I'll get in the habit of wiping my plate before putting a sandwich on it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Haven't heard from Jose since Friday, so I guess he's not speaking to me any more, and not employing me any more. That's sort of a shame, since he seemed like an easygoing sort, and he was a good tipper, and I liked him. If saying 'no' to a last-minute unannounced gig gets me the silent treatment, though, I'll stand by my earlier statement: Fuck him.

From Pathetic Life #10
Monday, March 20, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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