First Times and Last Times and a Limo Full of Tacos and Go, Dumby

That full feeling you get a few minutes after eating, but the feeling doesn't sit like a cannonball on your stomach, but it keeps on roiling like hookah smoke laid into a glass bowl and it just keeps flowing around and around, Baoding balls in the palm of your guts.  It's kind of like that.  The feeling is.  But saying it's like being full like you just ate is way too simplistic.  It's hard to explain.  What ever isn't.  A few things.  Gravity.  Death.  How to make a cheeseburger.  Those are pretty easy.   What a fruit salad is.  Also easy.  I could probably explain most of those things in five seconds.  Except the cheeseburger.  That's a tough one.  The definition is loose and specific at the same time.  So not everything is hard to explain, but most things are.  Things like that feeling.

Commercials are ridiculous.  Everybody knows that.  Except the people that don't.  I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives.  This or that was like being born.  That and this was like the first night of my life.  No one remembers what the first day of their life was like.  If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day.  The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work.  Which is kind of hilarious.  I feel born again: no you don't.  If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming.  I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths.  How about, just a little continuation.  A little contiguity.  A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory.  I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about.    Helping everyone forget their only born once?  Who knows.  Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.

It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right?  Oh, wait, no.  I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role.  Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television.  Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies.  I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading.  But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do.  Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else.  Which is fine.  The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you.  Which is fine.  So you, just move on to the next thing on the list.  And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap.  Or hit the bar.  I forget.

So anyway.  Funny story.  There's this commercial for tacos.  All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know...  tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo.  All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds.  It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?).  I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts.  That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.

I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight.  Not by conscious choice.  It just phased out with excess disposable income.  Candy bars?  Eh, I'll split one.  McDonalds?  Eh.  Can we just get some pb and j and rice?  I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer.  It's not you, empty food, it's me.

I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order.  But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue.  And then organize the hues by saturation.  That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it.  Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it.  Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees.  Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown.  Not that complicated.  And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them.  As they are all blank.  And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do.  But I can't trust myself with thirty markers.  It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them.  And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out.  And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too.  And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.

Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet.  Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do.  And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent.  So there.  I'm not crazy.  

So I have to get started.  I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day.  Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle.  I lost my ear phone/mic.  Which means I have to sit in one place.  Purpose defeating.  The small voice in my head is a large voice now.  Just go do it, dumby.  A lot has changed.  What do you want?  Clarity?   I got that.  No, that's funny.  Way too aggressive.  I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days.  That's all bullshit.  I've learned.  Again.  After forgetting.  This time it's going to stick though.  Rediscovered outlets. Emissions.  Things I thought I couldn't do anymore.  Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice.  Which is good.  Road speed governor.  You and I.  I'm still taking two.  Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction.  It's all physics.   Kind of.  I don't know these days.  Line items.

Hi.