Mental Fitness.

So during the time I was away, not writing this blog, I happened to discover that


I've got brain problems.

And when my room mate (who is like my wife at this point) upon returning home finds me, yet again, by myself during daylight hours making a sizable dent in a bottle of gin and chain-smoking on the couch, joylessly watching Tyra Show reruns (such woe!!) while feeling really really bad for myself - suggested what my mom has been saying for years

"you should go to therapy."

(Its harder to be all like "OH WHATEVER MOM" when your friends say it...)

I decided, yea, maybe I should. And I mean, unlike sopping up whiskey with your cerebellum, its not going to kill me. Furthermore since I am one of the lucky few who actually have health insurance, I can get my brain worked on, like, for free!

No wait, wait..

I can work on my own brain.

Right?

I shouldn't be so flip about it...I just find something about the whole idea of therapy fucking annoying. Well its not so mysterious. What I find annoying is that NYC offers up a myriad of ways for its inhabitants to display shockingly unpleasant levels self-involvement. So you strive to avoid being completely overtaken by your own ego (or risk becoming a frightening species of gorgon only found in New York), and then the first thing that comes to mind as a sure-fire panacea when you start seeing red doors and wanting to paint them black, is spending your money to essentially force someone to listen to you talk about yourself.

It just annoys me. About me. And I'm going to talk further about it, on this blog, which I write, about me.

Perhaps I am loosing this battle.

So battle lost, I have started "seeing someone."

Everyone says it's important to have "reasonable expectations". I guess that means, for example if I were a lunatic who was seeing gigantic hob goblins with fangs on fire everywhere, I shouldn't hope to eradicate the hob goblins entirely, but perhaps turn them into more petite, benign goblins. Fiery goblins you can live with. Goblins not on fire.

But I'm having a hard time continuing this venture. I don't think I'm really all that interested in not being upset. And some part of me thinks the whole thing is a big snake oil wholesale operation. I don't know...I'm just trying not become Artax in the Swamps of Sadness...you know what I mean.

Autumnal, Clinton Hill.

Well,

I wish I could report a reason I have written nothing since June.

Let's make one up.

So I applied for this uhhh... grant.....which I got....and I went to Istanbul...no...Constantinople.

They love me there. I'm huge there.

So after a long summer in Persia - or some other evocative name which was once a place, such as the USSR or Gaul - I am facing another fall, in yet another borough of our fair, fair, city.

Let me introduce you to Clinton Hill.

I am making friends in my neighborhood. And doing more laundry. Well actually I am doing less laundry because now it involves carrying a cart down the stairs and wheeling a panda-sized bag of it, old lady style, down the block. But things are always hopping at the laundromat on Dekalb avenue. By things, I mean fights involving cars and dogs and everybody having a generally harmless, innocuous time screaming at each other in front of their friends and neighbors.

As my darks and whites were tumbling and I was outside further distancing myself from my resolve to quit smoking, a very high dude came up to me and asked to try on my sunglasses.

Hey, they are awesome, I agree - so of course I obliged. He kept yelling "who do I look like, I think I look like T - I" , at his cousin, who he told me was Israeli. I kind of doubt it but OK.

anyway...I didn't know it at the time
but in fact he did look like TI!!!

not this TI



Then he asked me to hold his dixie cup of orange juice and feel his hands, which were soft because "he'd never worked a day in his life." ( FYI - They weren't that soft. Furthermore, Scarlett O'Hara, the term "soft hands" is creepy, don't say that to girls.)

Then he kindly offered to marry me and told me I'd never work a day in my life.

How's that gonna work bro?

Neither of us working any days in this new life together, which we are starting right now, on the street outside the laudromat drinking OJ (or methadone) from a dixie cup? And I get the feeling, well, because you told me so, high guy, that you'd like to get me pregnant pretty fucking fast, so their would be another 3 or 4 mouths to feed. I mean, I'm down for the no-working thing, really...I REALLY REALLY am...but uh, I'm going to need to see some proof before we head down to city hall, a bank statement...a sack of gold doubloons. Something.


A lady can dream though can't she? Especially now, cause the lady is BROKE, and I like living off dreams, fairy dust, and magic beans that come from the sky.