This room has the weirdest smells. Not cool. Ghosts of it's past tenants. Reptiles and Body Shop products. And now burning plastic and virginal technological tools, that will become obsolete before they purge their newness smell. And the incense attempts to mask aforementioned smells. This room, as a result, (almost said 'reslut') smells as though something is burning in here. My computer? Something slowly smoldering in a corner?
"Shine", what a fucking great movie. It's on TV right now. But I would have to go downstairs, past the mother and a visiting friend of hers, to get to the TV. The mother's friend is showing vacation photos. And giving ten minute narratives on each snapshot. A middle class boomer habit. You are predisposed to boring behaviour. You are useless to me.
Not that I am much better at this point. I can only hope I'll look back at this time in my life as a change of pace. The calm before the storm. A lull before life. Please, please, please kill me now if I am destined to look back at this time as, say, a good time. I am so bored. Catatonic from understimulation.
And I'm hungry. My mother has made a point of not buying any of the food that I like. So I have been surviving, barely, on green-skinned mandarin oranges, thin little ginger cookies, and water. Sounds like some strange religious fast. I'm not a happy girl here. My stomach is even less happy. My mother has the worst and most fucked up taste in food. (example: home-made yogurt with granola and cranberry sauce) And I'm not going to give her the pleasure of complaining of this lack of healthy sustenance. That would just send her into one of her "Buy your own food!" rants. I won't go into that. For some reason I am incapable of adult behaviour without assistance, or an audience. And she's not helping. So I'll just keep eating these green oranges and not say a word. Oh, I'm such a martyr.
Tired and deeply bored. No use in even speaking. Don't ask me questions. I won't answer. I am dead. Dead eyes. Flat spirit. The lobotomy of time passed with no stimulation. "nothing seems to satisfy... " I need a road trip. ("I don't want it, I just need it") Badly. Road trips fix everything.
Baja needs me. I feel it. I want to feel it. There is a space in Baja thirsty for Chaara and I ought to get there as soon as possible, before we both dehydrate. Wuz thinking I would go just after Christmas, but why would I wait that long? I will be unemployed for the month of December. I intend to bypass the fucking degrading consumerism of the Christmas season. So what will I be doing for the month of December? Cabin fever will set in deeper and deeper each day. My mother will drive me to homicidal and/or suicidal madness. I should leave as soon as possible. But that would be very soon.
Why is leaving always the hardest? It's so good to be gone. Away. But it is so hard to walk away. Those first steps. I always hesitate. Hate that. But when I'm going with someone else I am ready to go right fucking now. Okay let's go. You're slowing us down, let's move! When I go on my own I'm so meticulous and dull at the starting line. "Well... I shouldn't go until I get those ..socks I wanted. I wouldn't want to be on the road without those socks. I'll leave in a few days."
I may put up a notice on Jericho Beach's hostel bulletin boards. Something to the effect of wanting someone not afflicted with practicality, who wouldn't think it crazy to hitchhike to Baja on very little money for a month or so. Someone who would see that it would be freakin' wonderful. Perfect. I don't know anyone like that in my life. Someone who wouldn't think "I don't have enough money" or "Hitchhiking is dangerous". Someone who would just think; "I've got nothing to lose. I'm there." That's what I want. Someone whose sense of adventure is several kilometres south of rational.
In the meantime...
I think I'll go have a couple ginger cookies. I'm feeling weak.