Old And Worn Clogs

I had considered getting a routing application, but the mobile data was almost out. There was no inter web signal, so I had to stay and sit and try not to shout. The wait was until about 4:25. How much longer till the bus?

After finally getting on the correct bus, I got to the coffee shop I was wanting to go to. The coffee shop was filled with chilled, enough to make anyone not able to concentrate. The concentration was on and off constantly, and the line for me to get my coffee was as long as you could imagine. I have twenty eight cents left on my card, and only have about four hours and seven minutes left on the laptop. Although technically the laptop would only really run for three of those, and seems to shut down at about one hour and thirty minutes. I found this out accidentally a few days ago.

I settle down and wait for my White Chocolate drink.

The day was a weird day for me. As it turns out, you can't even withdraw plasma in a donation center if you live in a motel room. You might as well be homeless, because they treat living in a motel the same way.

We've been living in the hotel for the past few months, with no practical way of gaining gainful employment. The closest place I could find any sort of occupation is all the way in the Weed district, where I used to occasionally purchase joints. Although not the most way can smoke is ground tea leaves and curry powder. This caused a slight curry powder stain on my black sweater, which never seems to come out because my room mate refuses to purchase detergent. The most she ever bought was bar soup.

So here we our we no way of getting money.

Technically not homeless, considered homeless.

I had a friend who had blond hair and a pair of glasses. We called her Emma. She worked at the bowling alley on the night shift with low self esteem, although in person she always carried herself as above everyone else.

For a girl with a shoe fetish, she should be all the rage right? She swap out bowling shoes left and right. One could picture Emma in bowling shoes bending over for a school paddling in a 1950's skirt in the school's principle's office, depending on if that was the time you were in school. But I wasn't of course, it was the late two thousand seventies. But Tennessee was strangely non progressive. An era where most people can't even afford a good laptop was extremely common.

The bowling alley had just came out with bowling bowl renting machines, reducing most of the work load to primary renting the shoes. Emma would recall to me how she wondered how much longer it would take for them to come out with vending machines for shoes. So there was a certain period of time when she could see pretty boys and girls renting bowling shoes in and out of the bowling alley on drunken benders. Eventually it got irritating when people started joking about their bowling alley team names.

People would complain about the cheese on the bowling alley pizza not being to their taste. For Emma, her life was ground and mixed with body evaporation fluid into a paste. "It's just the Pizza we always have." she said.

But on school days she presented a different front.

She wanted to show the world something different.

At school she would bring the hottest and latest cell phone, were the hottest and latest in teen shoes that were often attractive in a good bad sort of way. She could slip in and out of them in her bare feet, buckle the clogs, and come to skill wearing the frilliest of blue jeans.

At lunch hours she would take her cell phone, play the latest in fake virtual reality games with it, and then quickly put it back when they see a teacher coming. This school was a few states over.

Now hear I am contemplating bowling alley work myself.

I hope I don't become like Emma dunking bowling bowls.

We were comparing tanning styles between pink and brown. I had never thought of my tanning tendency up to that point, I simply listened in my moment of mental melt, feeling like I rolled a joint. Yet it was a straight stone. The time between the bus arriving and not was twenty five more minutes, just after a conversation about humans breeding with chimps during WWII experimentations.

I've tended to be a visual thinker, when I wasn't being a stinker. Me mind liked to tinker with all sorts of visual impulses, imagining myself doing said experimentation while tanning in a tanning bed. Wanting to create people that can grant me wishes, instead like the ones in real life my papers are burned in the crematoriums of the grim history of the the previous wars. I found that I saw Nazi's intruding into my personal life, and I my mind would became fuzzy from all the sensations coming out me once about the tragic lost of Ann Frank.

There is something about obscure punning, where it leaves the human mind running. Running, being at risk of overheating, the test of comprehension given an f minus for trying.

Well at the end of the trip, my mind kept going.

But my mind couldn't keep up with my wakefulness, and found my mind beginning to act independently of my body.

I simply couldn't move a muscle.

The human mind is a funny thing, being scalped by the lasers of ancient knowledge, or preferring more practical skill sets. I feel that every day of my life is trying to make a bet, trying to find a compromise in the false dichotomy. The dichotomy of equally intelligent modes of thought.

In the mind it tries to visualize the dichotomy, attempting to try to understand them both. The inner wasteland of ancient knowledge colliding with the real word of slap happy word play. "The bus is coming." I said, feeling fuzzy brained.

I wished for my day to be not profane.

To not rationalize in my views, the irreconcilable.

To be an information absorber, one can read a few pages, and infer the rest of the story through points of connection. Like in sculpting, a sufficiently trained person can create a face in days. My life on little information from the real world, when I form a mental rural reality. In this reality I see a world where time has stood still, and eternal youth in mind is regained.

Yet today is a day of lack of absorption of anything. I had just had my third breakdown of any, shining my misery into a new penny. My own joy lost in a mental fog. I fantasize of women in clogs, while wondering if it's not myself jealous of their physical beauty of not their attractiveness. But the nuance is in the details, and trans women can have both. The only reason I don't wear what I want, is due to lack of money. Or I would go to Federal Way looking like a honey. I would go out all proud of how I like, and yet I've never been one to express such. I suppose my own issues stem from my visceral reaction to certain people, to certain women, to certain kinds of beauty that I find more cute or beautiful than my own.

They said I looked like my sister, and yet now I look like dirt. One your someone like me on food stamps, you want to be payed for squirts. That way one can purchase themselves frilly tee shirts. But this is a story about the visceral reactions in their purest forms, like the hidden anxiety of introverts.

The story of the raggedy tee shirt.

Sometimes as artists, one has self-doubt. Part of it censoring the self, and the other parts are to complicated to mention. It leads to ones to be inquisitive about the nature of doubt and self-esteem among urbanites and other with freedom--freedom at the cost of thousands of dollars.

I once had technology, including some game systems. Yet over time I started making my own games, and started weening off of them by the month. It was a time when I still lived in a hometown where people still fought over the value of keeping horses and ponies, they eventually ended with one guy saying "fuck this, I'm keeping some horses anyway. Screw you guys." I lived in a world of many lies, and many unacknowledged truths about my life.

I suppose that's why I never found a wife.

This tee shirt is worn old and thin, sours. My memories of earlier times sometimes distort beyond recognition. And at other times meltdowns complete and partial. The story of my life.

The old and worn tee shirt.

The old and worn clogs.

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