I count my blessing with a diet pill and cup of tea. 1. I can afford cigarettes. 2. I own houses and land. 3. I have all my pets, they are healthy and well. I pause to chew the skin above my thumb nail, nervously, before continuing on. 4. My birthday is in 3 days, I've survived to 22. 5. I have a guitar. There's not time to write much else. I walk Brooklyn and head towards the bus after a frazzled search for my iPod head phones. It's gonna be one of those days.
I dread the bus ride. I enjoy the daydream time that it provides but lately my fantasies have been drifting towards the things I don't want to remember, or think about at least. I shield them like rain, but big heavy drops of what-can-never-be fall through the holes and leak across my heart. I hate Mondays.
The day proceeds routinely and slowly, punctuated by cigarettes. The rubber band I use to restrain my unshowered, unruly hair, snaps, I replace it with the first pen I find. I am called a socialist, I spit on their mailbox. A boy named Rome brings me water, its the best things that happens all day. Time drags on, at night it gets cold and starts to rain. I curse my flimsy rain coat and cast wrapped in a garbage bag. I return to the van under quota again. Paper work goes by quickly, then a beer, or two or three. I return home no different from the morning save for an air of fatigue.
- I have a job.
I'm in a bad mood, my goat just died. The urge to point a finger of blame is licking at my heart like flame. I grab Brooklyn's collar to hard when he runs outside, I glare at [MW] comfortably sleeping in [C]'s hammock with bitter resent. I know I need to leave the house before somebody gets hurt. I fumble around [C]'s room, we've all been sharing it while we fix up the rest of the house. Finally I find my boots and a pack of smokes, I have cigarettes at least. I think to myself.
Its not like I don't take death well. With the amount of strays I've taken in over my life I'm fairly used to it. Some just don't make it, and there's nothing you can do about that. It's just that I haven't lost one since that puppy in Mexico, and it's been years since one died in my arms. I try not to think about the others and pull the black Everlast sweatshirt we've all been sharing over my head and cinch the hood under my chin against the cold. The bottom reaches my knees. I bury my face in Brooklyn's side before I leave, Be good buddy. I murmur, then make my way down the freight tracks to the Rebecca House.
I'm thankful to find my sister and [W] gone when I arrive. I need to be alone for now. Sabina is nestled on the guest bed when I step inside. I lie down beside her and she immediately begins to purr. With construction going on at the new house and the goat situation I haven't been able to keep her with me, and I have missed her dearly. She settles herself on my chest and begins to groom my arms. I watch her, thankful for all the years we've had together. She was my very first travel partner from the time she was a month old, and god knows, we have been on some adventures. Eventually she rolls of my chest and tucks into my side to groom herself. I lay a protective arm over her. I know I need to get up soon. I want coffee and need to use my sisters computer before she comes home. My fingers are already starting to bleed from the chewing I subjected them to this morning. The days chores pile up in my head, starting with digging a grave and ending with joint compound and dry wall.
It's Sunday but there's no rush at least, I quit my job last week.