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Barbara.
Barbara.

Barbara.

I’ve got 20 minutes until Le Uber picks me up and takes me to the airport.

It seems I am always going to Texas. All these trips and I’ve still never been to Austin.

20 minutes is a significant amount of time. The way I spend my time is also significant.

Last night, my friend came over because we agreed to be workout buddies in order to have good abs. Neither of us wanted to do kettle bells swings or run hill sprints; we both looked like lazy piles of manure.

We did the workout for 20 minutes and we both walked back to my apartment smiling.

“Why is it even a question whether or not to work out?”

“I don’t know. Because we are worthless people that hate ourselves?”

Drifting into the melancholy. Floating through grey smoke and sensationless living. Because it’s comfortable. Exerting energy is the enemy. Standing still is the goal. And then the goal kills you. And you fucking hate your life.

When I was really heavy into Tai Chi I was convinced that the only way to be happy was to pretend I was a dog. If a ball rolled by I would say, “Ball” and smile and want to chase it. Constantly being distracted by the moment. No other real way to stay present during that phase.

What would happen if I laid in bed for a week straight like my laziness preferred? I would hate myself. I would go on a 10 day exercise and activity bender. I’d have my most productive period in months.

Zen is supposedly about being with the moment and observing it and skillfully deciding what is the next move. I say ‘supposedly’ not like an asshole that is skeptical but just because I have yet to experience that moment when I thought, “Oh yeah, this is Zen.” Instead, I sit and think, “I hate all of this.”

Somewhere in time comes a day when balance is natural, like my biological fate. Enough broken bottles over the head and 8 month stints into reclusive monk living and it’ll all just kinda happen on its own. No more trying to be even.

The thought of her not laying in bed next to me still lingers in the morning. I don’t even know why. I sleep better by myself. But I think I’ve finally found my sweet spot – I belong as a casual lover to women in unhappy marriages with 1 child between the ages of 18 and 36 months. It hits all the points that I need. Young mothers couldn’t be sexier. Kids that age are a riot and heartwarming. Unhappy marriages means max appreciation of our time together, and inappropriate public handjobs.

I don’t know, you guys. 7 hours have passed since I typed the thing about married women. It’s not true anymore. It won’t be for a while. And then it will be true again.

There was the flight to Houston in which I got upgraded to first class because I have megaton of miles with United. You change when you get upgraded. Doesn’t matter how many times it happens. Soon as some coach cabin fucker tries to come in and use your bathroom you trip them in the aisle. And you believe in your heart that they deserved it. Not your fault they had a fake leg from ‘World War I’ and couldn’t balance that well.

There was Applebee’s. Because we’re not in cool Austin. We’re in Nacogdoches. Which means ‘you’re fucked’ in Spanish. Applebee’s with Barbara, our 32 year old server with a 16 year old daughter. I don’t judge about that kind of thing. One of my best friends is 34 with a 21 year old son and if nothing else I just hope that they get a chance to experience some freedom once their kids become adults. Barbara showed us pictures of her daughter at a hockey game they went to in February. She told us about her job at Logan’s Roadhouse down the street. She kept coming back and telling us more and more things. Then she told us she was going through a divorce and it made sense that she was probably very lonely and not able to talk to many people. That’s quite sad. Sad like this new puppy I met that has cerebral palsy and can only run in circles to the right. There are some people that look at those situations and find the bright spots, but that shit ain’t me.

And now the glorious Hampton Inn. They miffed our ressy a little bit and Justin and I are sharing a room with one queen bed. There’s a pullout couch and it faces the bed so we will have to fall asleep in the dark facing each other. But I’ll sleep fine because I know in the morning someone else will make my bed.

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