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Thinking about walking

And there goes the 'weekend', my two days off on Tuesday and Wednesday. Didn't do a damned thing, didn't work much on the zine, didn't answer more than a few of the letters that now fill an entire milk crate. All I did was sleep, read, and hawk loogies out the window.

Today I'm supposed to wash dishes at Judith's house, and Friday and Saturday and Sunday sell fish, and then Monday at Black Sheets — a whole 'nother work week before I get any days for me?

Well, that sucks, so no.

Instead I called Judith and told her the dishes would have to wait until tomorrow, then called Jay and told her the Friday fish would have to 'go fish' until Saturday. Neither boss gave me any push-back or anything more than, "OK."

Can't afford to turn my two days off into a three-day mid-week weekend, but I am not a responsible adult, and what I can afford must yield to what I need.

♦ ♦ ♦  

With a third day for doing nothing, that's exactly what I did. It was a lovely nothing day.

It's cooler than it's been — weather for June, not August, finally — but I barely left the building. My exercise was walking a block to check my voicemail. Mr Urgent had left only one urgent message — I feel so neglected — and I'll call him back, sure, but only if he ever leaves a message that isn't urgent.

Back at the hotel, I didn't do a damned thing, didn't work much on the zine, didn't answer more than a few of the letters that still fill an entire milk crate. All I did was sleep, read, and hawk loogies out the window.

At mid-morning I made the arduous trek to the fire escape, to see what the city looked like today. Not much different from yesterday. It wasn't obvious, but in the distance I found a small chunk of black where that house burned down yesterday. If I hadn't seen the fire and didn't know where to look, I'd never have noticed.

It kinda reminded me of the jagged gaps between some of my teeth, where chunks or entire teeth have crumbled or been yanked.

Looking a ways beyond the steeple of Mission Dolores, there's a hill of dirt and trees more than of houses, which I'd never noticed before. When I put my glasses on, it came into a sharper focus — sun-baked grass and trails that didn't seem too steep. A glance at my map told me it's Corona Heights, a park.

There's a little boy inside me who wants to climb those trails up that hill, but the man I am says don't be ridonkulous. You don't have the shoes for a hike, Doug, or the right pants. You don't even have a water bottle, plus you'd probably croak of a heart attack halfway up

The kid in me won the argument, though. He usually does. It's decided: I am going to climb that hill. Just, not today.

♦ ♦ ♦  

After a dump in the late afternoon, I went to the fire escape again. A layer of smog had settled over everything between here and there, and even with glasses on, I could no longer make out the trails up that hill. As the afternoon went on, the smog grew thicker, so (if and) when I take that hike some time soon, it'll need to be in the morning. Want to reach the summit while there's still a view.

From Pathetic Life #25
Thursday, June 6, 1996

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.

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