Shut Down

#134: Insufficient Disk Space

I will not think. I will just cut pieces from my brain and paste them on this entry. 36 straight hours of wakefulness running on nothing but powdered energy drinks while working on this powdered juice presentation. Juicy news. Woozy news. It's being in Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf consoling yourself with a tea latte at the end of a long day which involved a car breakdown, a missed trip and a crooked cop... then seeing the crooked smile on the familiar face of a stranger and collapsing in such a comforting embrace. Are you okay? I'm so sorry. It's okay. I'm okay. But I stink. It's okay. It's 2004.

I walk into my office sometimes half-hoping that someone had left a little present on my desk - like a little white chocolate bar stolen from a new product development meeting with another company and a little post-it with shy chicken scratch handwriting boldly (although foolishly) declaring what Holden did in Chasing Amy. "I love you. And not in a friendly way... not in a misplaced affection, puppy dog way, although I'm sure that's what you call it. I love you. Very, very simply, very truly." Or like flowers from a clueless stranger who doesn't know that I hate wine red roses that come in white cardboard coffins so he sends them every Friday until I get freaked out of my little head. Now all I have is my little head.

By the beach we all sing Annie Lennox's version of "Waiting in Vain" while the stars scoff at the dying embers of the bonfire nearby. We talk about songs of the 90's and wish at the back of our little heads that life was still that simple and people were still that sincere. Or simple-minded. I lie back and recall all his lies and how 6 years of comfort were actually 6 years of sitting on nails. And I am glad to be on this filthy beach with good friends rather than on the exclusive one from a decade ago or the pure white sands of Boracay from 3 years ago or from last year. They all brought tragedy one way or another. I should be more careful with this heart. It doesn't do well with nails. And what will you do? Nails are not good for eating.

But you can bite them. I bite my nails when I am stressed and I remember to bite them. And then there's the kind of stress that makes you forget to even exercise such nasty habit. Sukaness, I mutter under my breath. It's like Jack Johnson's song which I won't name. It's like how beautifully this entry could have turned out if I had only used my brain.

END. EXIT. SHUT DOWN.