Kevin Crumbs (popscene) wrote,
Kevin Crumbs
popscene

  • Music:

Quintessentially American.

This is life before everything changes in a couple of days.

Lying down with my head at the foot of the bed and staring at the three holes punctured into the ceiling, back when I had lanterns and not a bedside table lamp. I lie there with my hands behind my head and my elbows pointing off in two separate directions while music that could unfortunately be described as "loungy" by some plays in the background. It's there, but it's not dominating the room. I don't feel the need to really pay attention, to sing along, not that I could if I was asked to.

This is life spent in silence, except to occasionally talk to myself and non-ironically refer to myself as "dude". Life spent in silence, in diametrical opposition to the life spent talking (in my head and to others) that will take place this week, that has always taken place because I am paid to talk, to communicate, to placate, to put a nice spin on things when they go bad, to prod, to nudge, to motivate without hurting feelings or being discouraging. I've gotten good at talking, but bad at saying anything. I talked to Emily's sister's boyfriend the other night and thought to myself that I sounded too much like I do at work, too "on" and not really myself, like when I'm talking to people who are in social classes that I can never imagine being part of. I sat and paired an award winning novel from the turn of the century with bastardised immigrant food while listening to the non-stop conversation from the couple next to me and wondered if I can manage to say anything, to hold a true conversation anymore.

My day off, my only truly guaranteed day off until God knows when and I spent it making something I saw on a television show hosted by a much maligned celebrity chef. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Has life been reduced to marinating chicken drumettes with teriyaki sauce and crushed pineapples? Until today, I had no idea that pineapples came in so many packaging options, all guaranteed to be one hundred percent Hawaiian as if my purchase of pineapples would be guided by patriotic principle.

My fingernails smell like fake flowery fabric softener and the bath tub smells like plastic. The light that the aforementioned bedside lamp gives off is too bright for my tastes, too bright for someone of my disposition.

This will be life after everything changes in a couple of days, too.
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