Entry 14
Fort Hood, TX – 1:32AM
I am this close to securing my residence in Baltimore. It’s in Hampden, which is a hip neighborhood with ample coffeeshops, bookstores, vinyl record shops, bike repair places, and vintage clothing shops. Perfect for me, really.
It’s also about three streets from H, who “can now talk to me again.” Apparently she was seeing someone for awhile. We’re always doing that. She re-appeared on my Facebook, in a weird flurry, and called me out of the blue. I answered the call. It’s my own fault. She’ll never believe that the landlord actually contacted me.
I’ve been losing weight by nature of working my ass off, not exercising, forgetting to eat. Today I composed my 3,000 word shipsinking article. I submitted it to a blog with lots and lots and lots of traffic. It’s a great article. I think they’ll publish it. And I think normal people — that is to say, people who don’t read/comment with the sole intent of ingratiating themselves with people they think can do them a favor or whatever — will enjoy the story. It’s a twisted love story. Such are the narratives of our lives.
My big concern is that I’ll have to foot the bill for getting to Baltimore, because my residence is still Maine. Oh yeah, the Maine thing fell through. My aunt, with all her support the troops neo-con nonsensicality, decided to give my job to someone else. And so it goes. I’ll work it out. I mean, the rent is low enough that my disability checks will actually cover it. So I’ll be fine. I’ve got more money coming in from the business. I blew my wad on that trip to LA and this new computer. The new computer was basically a necessity. Or so I like to convince myself.
I’m so super-fucking-stoked about going back to Baltimore, about returning to life outside these gates. I feel much older than I am. Wiser.
I have to work on this fundamental denial I have, though. Things will go wrong. Things can go wrong. If things can go wrong, things will go wrong.
I’ve been catching up with the KEXP Songs of the Day for a few days. There are like 21 hours remaining. Made some discoveries. We Were Promised Jetpacks. Years late to the party. The thing about great music is that it’s great long after everyone else likes it.
Can’t wait to smoke some weed, relax, and find a job. Some kind of easy job. Cash. Maybe I could wait tables. I don’t know. I definitely want to get over to Brooklyn, NYC and hang out with AM sometime this summer. Seems pertinent. I could stay at that 3B place. Be very unassuming. Not introduce myself to Catherine Lacey or anything. Maybe pay in cash and use a fake name. Grow a beard. See what kinds of things happen around there.
J. will be there by then, anyway. She’ll be living in Greenbush, if I remember. Or not Greenbush. Who knows. All these little neighborhoods. Whatever the one that’s known for being overtly Polish. She’ll be living there. So I might just crash with her, but I might not like that, she might not like that, it might not be okay. She might not be happy with how good things are going for me. She’s still pissed at Atlanta, I bet. But anyway, it wouldn’t be so bad.
Well, all of that. And then some. Got to remain positive and try not to wonder what the weeks will bring. If all else fails, I can always just work the labor pool and drink forties with the down and outs. It worked when I was a teenager.
