a poor excuse

Get up. Shit. Shave. Shower. Eat. Read the newspaper. Get dressed. Drive to work. Work. Go home. Watch TV. Sleep.

Get up.

I’m not meant to do this.

You notice I didn’t even put in the “kiss the wife” or “pat the kids on the head” part of the cliché-ridden American Dream. Why? Well, those aren’t part of my reality.

And with my latest move, Watching TV has fallen off as well. Although I still watch programming on my computer, so that has to go to.

I do the other things, however. With the added bonus of jamming to Rick James’ “Street Songs” every morning. I decided to do that one morning, and every morning since has not been worse than the one before it. So, I take that as a positive.

The beard went today. Well, elongated “Lebowski” goatee, went.

Woke up too late today to get my hair cut. There I go, routine-ing myself again.

Ugh.

I read a quote last night, on a Facebook “friends’” page. I put this in quotes because I’ve met this person all of twice. Never had a conversation with her, yet for some reason she deemed me worthy of Facebook Friend status. Whatever that is.

Like most things that I don’t write down, I have no idea what the quote was. But the impression it made on my mind has lasted. I’ve got to get out of this rut and make what I want to happen happen.

Yeah, psycho-babble for the most part, but I need to take control of things again.

I’d kind of buried myself in this almost Unabomber code. Don’t shave the goatee until I find another job. Well, I’m not looking for a job, but the goatee grew. It was cool and all, don’t get me wrong. But, it pretty much did eliminate one other part of my quest at the moment -- finding a date.

There really aren’t many non-biker chicks that dig a long-ass goatee. Well, that’s not true, but I don’t run in the circles of Alt-Country musicians quite enough to find those women. Add the minor factor that I don’t play in one of those bands, and you get my point.

The image of Hal Holbrook from the movie “Into the Wild” constantly haunts me. He seemed kind of happy; living out in the desert by himself making leather belts. But he was tortured by his past. And that’s no way to live, trust me. The past made me who I am, but it can’t control who I’m going to be. Unless, that is, I let it. And I do.

It’s why every day I wake up and I know I have to go to work, I loathe it. I stay in bed too long. I linger by this computer a little too long. I play that extra CD -- right now it’s “Something Old, Something New” a mix given to me by the redhead of drunken blackout fame. And I think seriously about just not going -- Gibbonsing it. But I never do. Not yet. But there I go. Saying I’ll do it later.

The 23rd is looking like an excellent day to skip class. I’ve racked up an amazing 2.5 sick days so far. Isn’t that sad? The company only gives 5 sick days a year. Cheap bastards. But, that’s the way of the world now, isn’t it? At least that’s what folks with the stocks and bonds want me to think.

There I go with the crazy, old-guy conspiracy talk again. Who am I becoming? A sane man? I crippled man? Just a man?

Nope. I’m just Randy. A broken-hearted, naïve, silly wanderer who is stuck in place for the half-decade.

Time to Ride On, Bon Scott would tell me.

Excuses smell, ya know. Because they are assholes. Pity the fool that sits on his ass while the world keeps running. He ends up atrophied, insane and useless.

Set a goal. Achieve it. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?

It is.

I just want to own a bar. With a 45s jukebox. And a dog named Sydney.

Still.

I talked with a bar owner about it. He saved up money for 12 years to get to the point of being able to start his own place. That he rents. That’s encouraging and discouraging at the same time.

There won’t be any saving up plan here. I’ve got to come up with an investor. Or 12.

I’ll take care of the jukebox and the dog.