2004-11-15 - 9:34 p.m.

I skipped lunch today.

My stomach didn�t move, despite the waining hours, so
I sat at my desk, tapping away at wbsites listing
gargantuan mounds of useless knowledge for me to
absorb and burrow into my soul.

Something, despite the cat calling surrounding my
head, lead me astray of the waiting cup of chicken
noodle soup and two dollar burger that gets served up
without me saying a word at my little caf�.

I could not imagine ingesting the buckets of grease
that float, obeying the tides, above the cheese on the
local pizza, nor did I care for the Hale or Hearty
soups around the corner.

The nearby snack machine dished my sustinence in
Cheeze-its and Nutra-grain bars. Regrettably, just
behind that last bit of blueberry were Goobers, a
snack that so often replaces popcorn in the theater as
it calms me so.

Today, I thought to spend the day in my apartment,
quietly stewing beside my Blockbuster selections, with
the rare possibility that I would care for and caress
my keyboard into the construction of some narrative
beauty. So live the dreams of the procrastinator,
hoping the spirits will take him up into their arms
and deliver him into beauty by no other force than
their own will.

Will thoughts slowly drifting down the sticky confines
of my throat into my belly, it churned and growled,
over flowed with things indigestable in tandem. Each
course perfectly passable, but together the stem rolls
and boils, stewing a mash of thought, memory and
feeling that sits sinking into the walls around it,
clogging the works and drowning the sanity pleading
beside my esophagus.

My train of conciousness begs for a pause at the
station of sanity, but keeps roaring past, rendering
me as speechless and befuddled as it had on the last
lap.

What I want more than anything is to step back into
the lens of the bemused observer, throwing spit balls
across the block while pretending to be engrossed in
the crossword of the times, but there is nothing in me
today, nothing, that will allow that. Even a day
spent standing, teasing chuckles from unwilling mouths
will not change the tides which seem to flow
inevitably into one sucking spiral.

Tonight, my couch will call, along with my cider, and
my flavor blasted goldfish. (Truly a gift of the
allmighty is the extreme taste of Xtreme Cheddar.)
Laughter isn�t beyond me, neither is its call, but at
this moment, what I want is to scream the last shreds
of my sanity into an unwashed pillowcase, and hope
that this will prove cathardic.

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