Thursday, May 20, 2004

The Looney Bin; what Mr. Rogers neglected to mention.

The train ride home was fun. Brazilian woman with huge hair (the kind where you can’t tell where the hair ends and the pubes begin) spent some time stepping on my foot. Then she sat down in front of me and her big huge hair kept moving all over the place and invading my aura. But that’s my daily life. Her male companion had horrendous breath; he was slight and short, which made me wonder how on earth could he have that much breath in one little body. He must have borrowed Clark Gable’s dentures. Yick.

What wasn’t so daily, especially on the red line, was the number of hotties on the train. Brown line yeah, OK, hotties. But red line?

Almost every day (not night, mind you) passing Belmont I think about moving. I wonder what it is that I’m missing about the Chicago experience. I see the new condos going up, I see the shops, people, fun; I feel so removed in the ghetto. I told my friend who considered cities for medical residency to move to Chicago; if one has to have no life, at least do it where there is one all around you. I feel that way at Belmont. Not Fullerton, not Addison; but Belmont.

This naturally lends to the questions of what could have been, what ought to be, and how to go about resolving what is and what isn’t. I’ve been through a gamut of “could have been” adjectives and “ought to be” scenarios, each yielding a distinctly melancholy patchwork quilt that ensconces me, sometimes causally over my lap, sometimes in full mummification. Not even Kitten can help me escape that.

I generally resolve, and pull of this patchwork quilt, by stating that whatever I need to find I will find, and whatever needs to find me will find me. Then Logic begins to prevail and states:

“Yeah; a lot of fucking good that’s done you so far. You have a dead end job, live in the ghetto, amuse yourself by writing stories that no one cares about, alternately escape into movies and vanity, and have no plan to get yourself out.”

I feebly reply, “But I’m getting an MBA; I’m bettering myself…”

Logic retorts in full force, “Yeah, and you also went to one of the most prestigious undergrad schools in the country. Fat lot of good that did.”

I suggest, “Well, maybe it will happen; maybe it’s not that great right now, but it will happen.”

Logic loves it when I say that. It just laughs and laughs and laughs. “You can’t even get a date!” is Logic’s final word, as it walks, laughing down the looney-bin hallway of my brain to the exit door. Dejected I turn around and voilà, am staring directly at the morgue.

Next week on Mr. Roger’s Neighbourhood…


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