Well, I had a beautiful blog mapped out in my head from the 15-hour drive today – something on the cosmetic differences between Western New York and Eastern North Carolina I noticed – but recent events have canceled it out. You know on long drives how you hit that “cruising mode,” usually after it gets dark and the radio’s off, and all you do is have internal conversations with yourself? Mine tonight was on how I was going to stop being negative about Southeastern North Carolina, start trusting people more, and quit trying to control things I clearly cannot. It was a little pep talk I gave in hopes of getting my psyche to finally accept this place as my home.
So much for that plan. I am pretty pissed off right now. No, better yet, I am en fuego.
The day’s event left me absolutely exhausted. I use singular here because that’s all August 29, 2007 consisted of for me: one, huge event. I woke up at 8 a.m., started driving, and didn’t stop until 2:30 a.m. I pull into the Mill Creek parking lot and cannot find a space near my front door. Lovely, I declare, considering I have a car load of shit to bring inside. So I unload my bikes, the rack, my bags, and grab some odds and ends from out of the front of my car. I take the whole show to my front door, over the course of several trips, and go inside. What do I see? An elaborate instrument pot heads use to alter their perception of real life and all its happenings. I don’t know if it’s a hooka or a bong or a (something only reggae fuckers in Jamaica use), but I don’t like it. All I smell in the house is the stench of stale, nasty, white trash-resembling marijuana. Do I want to smell this in my living room after being away for a week? Hell fucking no – it smells like a homeless shelter.
Of course, Sara and her henchmen are bustling around the residence spewing out their own tunes of “oh, Justin, it’s so good to see you but I didn’t think you were coming back until tomorrow night” as if I’m going to laugh, ignore the fact that the scent of our living room resembles laziness, and go on my merry way. Hell, Sara, maybe I’d even crack open an ice cold Canadian beer I have stowed away in my own mini fridge by my good sitting chair … oh wait, those are gone too. The mere thought of such luscious pilsner that’s been used to make fans rambunctious at hockey and Buffalo Bills games being drank by long-haired societal waste products sickens me to this very moment. Obviously that wasn’t what the Crappy Crew expected. Hmmm … maybe they thought I’d just skip on back to my room and jump on my computer like I normally do. If so, they were correct! However, my comfy desk chair was nowhere to be found. After a brief search I discovered someone had taken it upon him/herself to take it to the back porch so he/she could smoke cigarettes (and God knows what else) in it. Something wrong with the two kitchen chairs sitting ten feet from the exit? They must not have been worthy of hoisting someone’s dead-to-what-the-fuck-makes-the-world-go-around ass while they worked on giving themselves lung cancer. I’m sorry guys, my mistake! I’ll leave it closer to the back door next time.
Let me tell you something kids, this is not a good way to make Justin bring out his sunshine face. For starters, I hate marijuana. I despise the type of people I and the majority of society associates with it, can’t stand the music or “artwork” it is often accompanied by, and especially dislike its scent. When I walk into a room and smell what makes me think only of decaying flowers dowsed with cheap perfume, my mind instantly speculates what the place must have looked like a little while before: a bunch of societal degenerates sitting in a cluster fuck of stupidity utilizing the only plant on the face of the Earth they give a damn about in a manner which will ultimately make them even more stupid. Chances are, there’s a tie-dyed shirt involved somewhere, or maybe even a stupid fucking Grateful Dead poster with one or two of those Carebear-gone-astray-looking creatures on it (chances are none of the potheads [By the way, if you smoke weed, you are a pot head in my book. Guys cannot be bisexual for the same reason. You either do something or you don’t.] even know any of the Dead‘s music).
I would say I am disappointed in my roommate, that I expect more of her, but I don’t. I’m not going to go into any detail here because it wouldn’t be very nice, but yeah, none of this comes as a shock. What’s funny is on my way I checked my mail box and saw the office here had sent a form asking if we wanted to sign a new lease, since ours is up in November. I don’t know whether to laugh and throw it away or draft a smartass response and then throw it away.
Welcome back to Wilmington, Justin. Aren’t you glad to spent 120 bucks in gas and a day of your life returning to the place you lay your head at night?
Man, I had such a good week back home, too …