Cobbled together from pieces

Has laziness ever been an emotional response? And at what point should it be forced to resign. I walked to work today, suited up with a coffee in hand thinking about every plan I had committed to later this week and all I could think was "I don't want to get out of bed."

The ennui is crushing. I've just written something else no ones going to read and you wonder if you should take all your talents down to the river and drown them, get a bad tie and sign up to be a used car salesmen.

What if your passion is being showered with praise? Can you put a price on that one?

Forget about the debt, I wouldn't know what to do with the money if I'd had it. Sometimes I think the drug addicts have it right. Theres never a guessing game with them. They like heroine and that's never going to change. That's intellectually lazy but today I'm a sloth. Its days like this you can almost hear the dreams dying.

Our track coach used to tell us that the days you don't train, someone out there is, and that's why you're never going to be the best. Goals aren't much different from track to life. The day I'm not out there looking for a web designer is the reason some other magazine with more motivation and less brains is going to be the next flash in the pan.

Sometimes I get arrogant and think I need to be surrounded with more highly motive people. Someone to carry the burden when I'm down, but whenever I think like that I get dragged into relationship questions and that's the path you never should take. Most get in relationships to settle down. I'm looking for someone to help me steer the rocket ship.

I work harder and care more about my resume and cover letter than I do my job. I don't think I'm alone and the American work force becomes more curious still. It's a sad day when you don't want to do anything, including nothing. I wonder if I tried explaining that to a robot if his head would explode. I found that kinda funny…whatever.

At 5 I bail early and I go to get my hair cut because I can feel the ends poke at my ears and that makes me feel homeless. You could make a kill on Comm. Ave. if you cut hair after 6 p.m. I get a heavy set woman and I breathe a sigh of relief. The asian guy butchered my name and I’m fairly certain my hair would have met the same fate. She’s overweight but she’s nice enough and some part of me feels like her lack of beauty means she’s less distracted by life. She brushes the hair upward on the back of my head and I feel like a dog getting my belly rubbed. I tip her $5 because she didn’t make me look like a meathead or a ten year old. I step out and look for the 57home.

A man approaches me with his cause for Union Labor. He has that low serious tone of an idealist going through the motions after having been rejected for the past several hours by anyone with a clue. I feel bad enough to talk to him but I could care less about whatever he’s peddling. I try and get him off of his game by asking personal questions. He’s come up here from North Carolina and his soul patch is mismanaged. His name is Chris and he was an English major too. We finish our conversation and he sets off to harass more people. Waiting, I watch two Mexican woman cross the street and I’m wondering why we’re trying to stop immigration. From my vantage point, we ought to at least bring their women in. They duck into an ice cream parlor and I have to give up my vulgar day dreams.

The bus is packed and is made more uncomfortable by the mugginess of the coming rain. I sit next to a woman who is none to happy with my antics of writing. She doesn’t speak or turn her head toward me but she sighs loud and often enough to warrant my assumption. The bus starts to let out and I purposely sit with her even as the rest of the bus is vacant. I eventually get bored and move off into the front before leaping out into Watertown yard and giving the whole rotten day its last rights.

It starts to rain as I walk home and I think that it will at least me bearable tonight. The glow of the neon in some backwater convenience store bleeds slightly from the windows across the street as I pass underneath the awnings and make my way up past the condemned library and down my street.