“Morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, hooray.”
“I know, already.”
I’m still here.
Still in my bed.
Right next to my chainsaw named Justin Case.
The base of the tree is protected by fence, but those little assholes, they know what it means.
I can’t blame the peepers for my lying here grumpy, their song is the sound of reverence. Yet, opening my eyes means seeing myself — there’s no possible way to hide my transgressions.
After the Ritalin’s effect on my office life, an adjustment in dosage was needed. And as powerful a stimulant as Ritalin is, doubling up is dangerous without a safety-net. Milligram deposits now make their withdrawals, it’s a casual matter of daily address: Like running the fast lane with cinder-block-ankles, ‘My driving is fine on these codones.’
Please don’t prescribe me an eternity bliss: that case of entitlement is most unbecoming. How about instead you find me some comfortable hours and a place to bed death with the grace of a mortal?
I might look like a four-and-a-half-day’s pay but I’m not as high-risk as you’re likely to think. I spent good money on this fireproof mattress, and I really don’t smoke all that much in my bed. Because of the Xanax that treats my insomnia: I can’t stay awake to keep the cigarette lit.
It’s almost time for my breakfast and coffee. This simple task puts a strain on the brain. It’ll take twenty minutes for the French Roast to brew, despite the fact that it’s not special in blend. It’s the microwave I adopted that’s considered as special. And when I say that I mean it’s retarded. But the microwave coffee’s not what brings me the challenge. It’s the pizza-ovened burrito I present as a task.
Some people would throw the burrito in with the coffee, heat the two together and walk away thinking they’ve commited the perfect crime. But it would take the coffee an extra twenty to jump, and I need the caffeine in me pronto like Tonto.
You may also imagine the inherent danger of taking forty minutes to serve me a soggy burrito — I don’t need another appliance massacre on my hands.
And let it be noted that I wouldn’t eat a soggy burrito if it were ready in five minutes. That’s disrespectful to the pollo and an insult the Mexican culture. I’m definitely some kind of asshole, but that kind of asshole I’m not.
Plus I need to keep appearances with the feathered little fluffs on my window:
When my burrito and coffee devices climax simultaneously, from their two separate locations, and their two distinctly different alarms merge, as if in direct response to what will be my obnoxiously loud whistle, two seconds before the timers go off, it will appear as though I brought the machines to life, and those little queers are going to think I’m some kind of goddamm space wizard.
That’s a fear I ache for them to have.
Now conducting a preliminary scan of the premises, my one eye open reports the pizza oven in hiding. Responding casually and deep undercover, my other eye’s en route to survey all its haunts.
Tracking inanimate objects comes with a surprising level of difficulty. They’re steadily evasive. They don’t report with addictions to unseemly-type dealers who are all too willing to ferret them out for the slightest of favor. There is no family, no relationship, no lover wishing their disfigurement to help free them from their spouse and provide the motivation to change their heathen ways. And they don’t suffer from the compulsion to pin and pic and rate while narrating their attempt to escape on Social.
Without a solid lead on the oven’s location, I suppose I’ll rely on my instincts. What my instincts are saying is: Look under the laundry, on top of the hamper, six feet over, three feet up from this mattress, sandwiched between the dresser and shower, two layers of furniture above the safe.
Now would be the time for some backup.
“Morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, hooray!”
“I’m working on it!” Who invited these guys, anyways?
The coffee: The coffee I can get started from my mattress. All the fixings are in the mini-fridge — that sits as a stand for the microwave. Both are in arms-reach from my mattress. My grimey work mug — the first one to retire without used as a weapon — stays on top of the microwave, posted for battle in morning. It’s all within reach. All I need is to sit my ass up.
And it appears as if someone’s left the mini-fridge open — by shutting a pair of my pants in the door. ‘Fuck!’
I’m not falling for curdled coffee this morning. I’ll drink it black with my burrito and maintain some civility.
I could go out for breakfast. I know some dolls that make good tips: I enjoy how they place warm biscuits in front of my face, smothered with hearty, country insulation. But the elusive pizza oven limits exposure to holiday shoppers and my psyche can’t handle aggressively salutated merriment.
So I’ll eat from the mini-fridge and microwave my coffee. And I’ll smoke my cigarette in the shower next to the pizza oven under my laundry. And then I’ll use the only seat in my crib — the mattress sandwiched between my front and back doors — and make some clouds to entertain these birds.
And when I’m done with all that, I’ll put on some jams and ground-up a hustle like it’s nobody’s business.
“Git Up, Git Out”
Setting bearings to tax-deductible.
My preferred line of service leaves no report, but someone other than my Mother may soon be asking questions — that’s if she hasn’t already apprised the locals of all her suspicions.
While my living off-grid helps packed bags meet burner wheels, it doesn’t do much for founding a business.
The trick will be finding a comfort zone that can survive in the realm of my typical excess. That could make this endeavor special in challenge. Translation: It has the potential to be a uniquely good time.
A dummy I’m not. I’ve pretended to be in college twice now. With the second time being the job I just left, the first was an actual, honest attempt.
Two years were spent studying business, all for a reiteration of books I read on vacation. My consensus says I do alright on my own, but the credentials were needed for a startup with Pops.
We developed a concept for a networking platform while I was indisposed with some downtime. He funded the effort when I was free for the venture, the least I could do was present as responsible.
The 4.0 was a promising start, and as an added unneeded bonus, offered misdirection for my supervised parole.
When the business didn’t take, Pops caught the bill. I took a personal interest in compensating his investment.
The change he put in was no small chunk, and since I had some wiggle room to make moves on parole, a calculated risk redirected my focus to things I found important.
Redirected my focus to things I found imported: That’s more accurate.
See, parole was the result of an unlicensed medical practice that prescribed people organic balance — and sometimes manufactured respect with a dose of heavy armament.
My practice — like any other — never had a shortage in patients. Unfortunately, my entertainment relations and ability to travel paired dangerously in the form of ambition. And of course in my practice — like any other — everyday single day I had a shortage in patience.
It was a time of heavy sedation. I slipped and caught a piece. What more can I say?
So as I’m stale and idling on the college front, feeling the financial pinch and not wanting to dig deeper in debt for another semester of regurgitated lecture, recent advances in synthetic analogues open the window of glory. An entire industry floats in on a wind and lulls me into a very real dream: Non-criminal, minimal risk, I’d like you to meet max rewards — feel free to utilize my brand, “Already Established”.
But in the same way it was born, it ended overnight. A majority of the industry slept through an emergency legislative session that greenlit a midnight ambush. Good folks woke up, and in the “ayes” of the law, their government names were now listed as RICO.
As others in my network share my insomnia, I was made privy to a meeting of high-dollar lawyers. That phone call came from competitive opposition — a professional courtesy from like-minds in the field.
After I’d built Foundation with my bed in the store, I had no choice but to torch it and call for extraction.
With my brick-and-mortar growing small in the rearview, all I could salvage was a safe in the trunk.
Long story short, there’s still a market and things still move — just not like they legally use to. That’s why after four years, I’m still sitting on 60 percent of a $12K investment, placing my current wholesale value at $240K. And if I piece things out, I’m good for over twice that.
That’s not a lot. But it’s enough to get creative
And getting creative’s my specialty.