Bare Necessities

Unpacking after a move is like fuckin Jenga. I don't need to tell you how. I had a million witty comparisons lined up, but at the moment they seem pretty useless. Talking to hear myself talk, and all of that.

But what is this, if not that?

We'll figure that out later, I suppose.

Here's a list of the things I did today to procrastinate so that I did not have to open any boxes:

- Read Punisher MAX 1 and 2 for the second time
- Played video games
- Texted my whole family
- Worked on a proposal for my job
- Imagined for a second that I had sprained my ankle while dancing and therefore could not move from my bed
- Shredded tax returns from 2002
- Attempted to smoke reefer, but coughed it up before I could get a proper high
- Ordered pizza, did not eat it
- Made a list of all of the boxes I'll unpack tomorrow. Cause. You know. That will totally happen.

At this rate I may be fetching wrenches from cardboard boxes well into 2015, and by then I'm sure the zombies will have come. I should adopt some wild dogs or something. Expand my collection of firearms. Learn to preserve foods and gut squirrels for dinner.

Orrr. Maybe I could wander down to the local dive and have a shot of Jameson and some 7-Up and try to ignore the people staring at me.

I'm starting to think that I look like one of those lone gunman types. I slap on a black on black baseball cap, keep my hands in my pockets and don't make eye contact except for with the bartender. That doesn't save me from getting chatted up, but I think that's because people are scared I'm gonna go postal and take everyone down.

"Freebird" came on tonight, and this crowd of jagoffs decided to sing along loudly and off key and with the wrong lyrics at the wrong time. Honestly, for a second I actually did want to go postal.

But what's a pink pocket knife gonna do for me in a situation like that?

Nothin. Not a goddamn thing.

I finished my shot and headed home. Head up, shoulders straight, boots stomping but not moving too quickly. Aware, but not overly suspicious. Alert, but not appearing to be paranoid. All of the things they tell you in the self-defense classes I never took.

If you have walked home through the non-gentrified version of East Oakland wearing outfits inspired by "Clueless", you don't really need self-defense classes. It's like a contact high, really.

And it saves you tons of dough.

See? I'm not a spendthrift after all.

Ha. Take that, financial advisor.

Sleep well, children. Tomorrow is the day that we make everything fuckin happen.