you get an empty case of whip-its and a girlfriend with a beeper

This is a continuation of the previous post. I am safely home at 3:08 AM as promised to my roommate in the previous blog.

I should be glad to be a pedestrian this thirtieth of November, aught-four. For today I bore witness to two bits of roadside carnage. First, at about noon, I heard a terrible skidding and thumping, even human-sounding noises, for a short moment outside my upstairs apartment. After gathering the stomach for a minute or two, to check out what I suspected was a traffic accident, I peered from the balcony to see a man trapped under the roof of his cheap sports car. The car had actually flipped and skidded just feet from a parked car. The ambulance and cop car bit ensued, and later I saw a man sweeping up glass.

The second and most recent accident viewed and witnessed audibly occured as I was walking from the web café described in the previous post. To put it bluntly, a dude nailed this trash can and made one helluva racket. I heard sirens a bit later in my walk. This all made me wonder if some event of recklessness on the road is the cause of many of the sirens I hear several times a day in this city.

Thanksgiving cannot go without notice. The highlight of my Thanksgiving festivities was, to put it bluntly, busting that monster nitrous hit off the whip cream can in the wee hours of the night. I seem to be doing well with the words tonight, but for two days after the hit was taken a couple of times my inner voice would say completely grammatically correct sentences to me such as, "I don't think I will," and figuring out if they actually were grammatically correct took as much effort as decoding a string of negatives such as, "That isn't not impolite." It just didn't sound like proper English, though it was. For the days that have followed the two day grammar trip I've been muttering little somethings under my breath about nitrous inhalation each time I get a bit confused by something. It's probably worked its way out by now, however.

The big question is, however, what I am doing in Milwaukee. I'm still simply taking up space, without work or plans for education. Granted I'm doing it in style, publishing epic tales dealing with mental illness and only drinking Coke products, but I panic when I'm face to face with a new face, and the face asks, "So what do you do?" It'd be fun to play with the question, pretend it's a proposition for sex or a job offer for a housekeeper. What it comes down to is that regular work would cut into my sleep and alone-with-computer time, and education feels like that thing that was going to relieve me of any worries about money. I've gotten used to poverty, my past career goals seem chumpish when having my love of writing in mind, so what's left? I have a book the size of a dictionary with addresses to which I can send my work. Consider me in pursuit.