When Daylight Savings Time kicks in, I have one less hour to come up with a story for the day.
I looked back over the years, and the stories on the short days tend to really suck.
On the other hand, when Daylight Saving Time is over, I have an extra hour to write a story.
And those stories kinda sucked, too.
In fact, a lot of my stories really suck.
But the great thing about it is, there’s thousands of them. And even if one percent are good, that’s still dozens of good stories.
And that’s fine by me.
Tag: personal
The Same Shoes
I tend to buy the same New Balance shoes every fall.
It’s a force of habit, the same shoes.
There’s the outline of an N on the sides. N. For New Balance.
But it looks like a Z.
Maybe it is a Z.
What does it stand for?
Zip? Zoom?
I don’t know.
It’s time to buy new shoes.
The treads are wearing out on my current pair.
One day, New Balance will stop making these shoes.
I’ll have to buy another kind of shoe.
But until then, I’ll wear these.
With the outline of an N on the sides.
Par for the ruins of a course
My grandfather used to take us miniature golfing.
The course was near the Adler Planetarium. It was a decent enough place to play when we first went there, but each time we went, something else was broken, or a water basin drained, or they didn’t bother sweeping up the fallen leaves.
The last time we went, it was all in ruins. The paint on the rails was peeling. The turf carpet was worn. And the obstacles were all a wreck.
The railroad gate had to be held up to let the ball roll under it.
We never went back again.
Nightmares and Nightmares
I never have nice dreams anymore.
Instead, I have the absolute worst nightmares.
I’ve stopped with the waking up screaming. Part because I’m too exhausted to scream.
I used to be inspired by my nightmares. I could use bits and pieces of them to create my stories.
But I don’t have any of those kinds of nightmares anymore.
It’s not what I eat or drink that’s causing it.
It’s just getting worse and worse on its own.
My doctor wants me to start taking pills. What if they make things even worse?
At least it inspired me to write, yes?
Car alarm
I didn’t get much sleep.
A car alarm was going off in the parking garage.
I hate it when people let their alarms go.
Maybe someone’s out messing with people’s wheels again?
The alarm didn’t stop for ten minutes.
I’d better go see. Someone might be messing with my truck.
So, I put on some shorts and a shirt, and I picked up my shotgun.
Out in the parking garage,I looked for the source of the noise.
Yep. That truck over there. Blinking tail lights, too.
Wait. It’s my truck.
I clicked the remote and the alarm shut off.
Cat in pants
My cat likes to sleep in my pants.
I try to be mindful, so when I take off my pants, I put then on the floor with the waist open and up, like a bowl or nest.
She never climbs into my pants while I watch. Only when I leave the room to make tea. Or go to the bathroom. Or fetch the mail.
When I return, she is curled up, nose in tail, asleep.
Such a cute little critter she is.
As opposed to the vicious, angry beast she becomes when I need to put my pants on again.
Skyscraping the bottom of the barrel
I used to work for a television station.
They were in the network’s ownership group. Big markets got new equipment and they’d get cut-rate junk.
They’d only buy new equipment if there wasn’t any way to repair the old.
The station needed a new transmitter, but the network made them run on backup until another station needed a new one. Then they’d get their clunker.
After the World Trade Center fell, I wondered if they were going to salvage WABC’s transmitter from the wreckage, hose off the dead bodies, and refurbish the twisted hunk of metal.
I’m surprised they didn’t.
Home Invasion
The woman upstairs is doing her Jane Fonda tape again.
She stomps around, goes for water.
Then one two one two one two.
Half an hour of that, then moving furniture back.
Four in the fucking morning.
But you get used to it, right?
I baked her a cake.
Yeah, she needs to lose weight, her doctor says, but a little won’t hurt.
She’ll burn it off.
She starts her routine again.
One two one two one.
Thud.
Try burning off the poison, bitch.
The TV stays on.
Shit. Didn’t think of that.
Maybe I’ll stay in a hotel tonight.
Illegal Seafood
Back in the early Eighties, my family went to Legal Seafood to eat.
The place was noisy, and the seats couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if Torquemada had designed them.
The waiter came, and everybody ordered lobster.
Except for me. I ordered the swordfish.
“We’re at Legal Seafood,” my mother hissed. “They’re famous for lobster here.”
I was about to reply, but my grandfather was cursing out the waiter for bringing the bill before the food.
Everybody got sick on undercooked lobster.
Except for me.
“They famous for that too, Mom?” I asked her as she dry-heaved into the sink.
Pod People
Recently, I bought one of those single cup coffee makers.
Some of the pods are good. Others are not so good.
So, I bought a few sampler boxes, and I started a notebook to track which ones I like.
First, I sip the coffee when it’s black. Then, I pour in some milk. Finally, I add some sugar.
All of this is tracked in my notebook with happyfaces and frownyfaces.
After trying every kind of coffee pod available, I looked back at my notes.
Then, I threw out the coffee maker and went back to making green tea.
Goddamned ulcers.