Pen and Pants

Waking up to the sound of birds out my window. I sit up and immediately jump to the floor, no, I fall to the floor. Being on the top bunk is disgusting because it makes it so much harder to actually crawl back into bed on the mornings I hate to be up early, this morning I lay my head on my bed, standing. A moment of feeling bad for being unmotivated. I can't seem to remember what I needed to do this morning. I don't shower. Don't want to. The pile of 'clean' clothes in the corner carries the pair of pants I've worn for the past two weeks. I need to wash them soon. As I reach out for them I notice that someone has written on the knee. Someone. It is on the right pant leg and on the right side of the worn knee, just far enough down to make it uncomfortable to write on without lifting my leg intentionally. Why did I write on it? When did I write on it? I'm so confused. Did I write on it? Who else would have. I cannot imagine anyone writing on my pant leg, the only time they could have would have been when I was asleep, but the pants were exactly where I left them. Weird. While I fasten my habitat belt I wander to the kitchen, vaguely thinking about what my roommates will think of me walking around in only my pants. I don't want to care about there approval, but I do, mainly because I care about them. About all of them. It's Brian's birthday today. I need to do something for him. I realize as I get in the kitchen that it doesn't matter if I'm naked, they'd think I was funny and nothing else would really change. Standing in the kitchen, I debate about whether or not I'm going to make or buy coffee today. I'm gonna make oatmeal, so no coffee. After all you can't make both when you're too lazy to make one. I don't want to dirty a pot to make oatmeal, they are always too hard to clean, but the problem is that I don't really make oatmeal often enough to remember how to do it without a pot. Nate cleaned all the dishes, I never do anything in this house. I'm glad they attempt to love everyone, otherwise it would be a different place. The generic tube of oatmeal has pretty good instructions on the back about how to microwave the oats.

Why'd I write on my leg, when did I do it? I'm sick of Chamomile tea, I've probably had eight cups in the last twenty four hours. Maybe the barista dude will give me a coffee refill even though I bought tea. It's a different barista dude. The red brick wall is seriously the most influential part of this place. It's the beginning of all uniqueness, they have good food and good coffee, they even have trendy basement couches, but if it wasn't for the red brick wall, and the steel I-beam, the couches wouldn't matter and most of the other coffee shops have good food and good coffee. Its the red brick wall. Every coffee shop needs one, at least a bare post construction wall, one that has not been finished. He sits down across from me. "Hey dude." I say, cause thats what I always say. I've always wanted to be a surfer.

"How are you?" He is wearing the standard old taxi driver/old trendy artist hat and the pink think he obtained this last spring break for the internal hat tournament. That was fun. My team won, I even dreamt we would. We were the yellow team but were given green headbands.

"Fine." I can't think of any better answer, "actually I'm in a strange destructive mood right now. I want to write a really good story about really good people and kill them." He laughs. I am laughing, but I am also upset with myself, I should never wish death on anyone, even imaginary. "I want to destroy something. But the thing is, I can't destroy anything. It is impossible to destroy anything, completely impossible. If something has existed then it cannot be destroyed. I mean we can physically destroy and dismantle, but our memories and our emotions don't let us, fully destroy, uncreate. They won't let us forget. And that is why it will always continue to be." It is so strange that I can say these things and yet not really think about them at all. I think everyone always assumes I think a lot because I say things that sound like they have been thought about, yet the truth is that I never know what I'm thinking about, or talking about, I never remember anything I think about. Somehow though, when I talk or write they all come out despite the fact that I don't think I've ever thought about them. Why'd I write on my pants.

"Do you want to smoke?" He sets his skateboard down on the ground, I nod and stand up. We begin walking out. I'm leading the way out and wonder if he minds that I'm a couple feet a head of him.

The Joynt is such a strange place to be, I don't want to be there, but I know I don't want to be anywhere right now. I'm completely wrapped inside myself. I look around and try to break out, try to stop thinking of my own existence, but I can't, not by myself. I get a pitcher of Berkhoff and two glasses, he is meeting me here. I sit back and write slowly and don't notice that he's sitting down until he starts pouring. He is not very talented when it comes to pouring, he has way to much head, I tell him he has to tip the glass. His blank stare welcomes silence. I don't want to talk. I see he has his pack of cards. I deal out a game of f-nodes. For some reason I loose horribly. "I'm dark." He says after the game is over. I look at him for a second. Not sure if I can say anything to that. He deals out another game as we both sit in silence a bit longer, sipping on our eight-ounce glasses. He wins again, it came down to the last two cards though.

"Why are you dark?" I look at him wondering where this mole hole will lead.

"(what he actually says here is confidential...sorry)" We talk for a while about this, I have no idea what I need to say, if anything. Instead of racking my brain on how to solve him, I think of myself.

"Every action we ever take is the manifestation of some deeper desire, or thought. Everything I have ever done has been due to the fact that I had a disturbed view of who God is, was. I didn't and couldn't really see God. It wasn't because my grandpa screwed up my life, there was already a deeper misunderstanding. What my grandpa did made it a lot harder to get through, but I still would have had to truly discover God. Everytime I did something wrong, I did it. I choose to do it, it wasn't my grandpa, and it wasn't the devil deciding for me. I decided. If I would have, after what happened to me understood God, I would probably have decided differently every time. But if I hadn't understood God, without the choices of my grandpa I still would have chosen wrongly. We must discover the root of our own misunderstandings." The bartender keeps glancing our direction, maybe he's hoping we've finished our pitcher. I love sitting at this table, we've got the windows and a table. The Joynt doesn't have much seating, ever.