The only reason I've ever wanted a house was so that I could sit on the roof, snagging a few brews. In my imagination, this situation involves a lot of high fives that I'm not exactly comfortable with, but home ownership is worth making some sacrifices for.
Right now my cat is jumping and clawing at some invisible creature. My assumption is that this is some sort of spider or winged bug, and that shit just will not suffice. He cornered a bug earlier today and simply sat next to the damned thing. He didn't try to eat it, he didn't try to kill it, he didn't play with it. When the bug moved, he moved. And sat. And watched. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate the early-warning system. I have some pretty specific rules RE: bugs in my house--you stay in the living room and don't come near me, we are going to get along swimmingly. You go in the bedroom? That shit is like THUNDERDOME: only one person leaves. Ladies, I'm being facetious.
I'm taking medications now. This is in addition to my love of self-medication; this is some doctor-prescribed horse shit about being "unhealthy." Why I put that in quotes I'll never know. Some tweets were posted earlier this week in which I talked about my doctor and his nurse describing me as "a fat sack of human garbage" and that's largely true. Should you get a chance, sneak a peak at the computer they use in the examination room; the descriptions the doctors use can be pretty hilarious. My previous doctor left a four-word note: "Mildly overweight but pleasant." What did she expect, exactly? Fatties are notoriously ill-tempered, but I've never bitten anyone. What would make me not pleasant? Who tells a doctor to go fuck themselves? Man, America just continues to grow on me, like a big patriotic malignant tumor. Good times all around.
So yeah, pills. My cholesterol and blood pressure are higher than they should be. It makes sense, considering my diet consists largely of booze and salt. No regrets here, but apparently some "quack" with a "medical degree and residency" thinks I need to make some lifestyle adjustments. Okay, great. This is something I can do.
Forming habits is harder than maintaining them. In my head the previous sentence appears as a revelation; in reality it simply is a matter of objective fact. People toss out arbitrary numbers--"You need to do something daily for two weeks for it to be a routine!"--but come on. The human will (or at least my own) is permeable to all sorts of osmosis. For instance, I don't drink every day for two weeks, but goddamn if my drinking isn't some sort of habit. Hell, it's a perk of the job. I don't masturbate daily for two weeks. Who has the time? But willpower can be fickle. It can be hard to pin down sometimes.
Making myself do shit I don't want to do--exercise, eat healthy, not kill my liver by drinking too much, show up to work, be nice to others, finish the half-gallon of milk before it expires--is easy in theory but difficult in execution. Learning habits (especially the bad, fun ones) is so easy. Learning the good ones, the ones that take work and dedication and perseverance and a sense of self-preservation isn't just hard, it's boring as hell. All of the males in my family have a tendency to die before the age of 50. Those who last longer are considered weak and different. This is the template that I've used to chart my life; I have 50 years. I need to squeeze out what I can. Some of the best times of my life have occurred when I've made some truly awful decisions. Why change now?
There's a certain sense of responsibility that erupts when you realize that other people want you around. I've lived my life solely for me, yet I've found myself in orbit around others. At first, this was just a kind of annoyance; one of my first break-ups happened because I lied to a girlfriend about being busy when in reality I was playing Spider-Man 2: The Game. Those who have played this game know that I was ultimately in the right, but actions have consequences and that shit is unfortunate.
But is it? Is it unfortunate? The liberation found in being solitary is profound; no drug available can mimic the feeling of being truly beholden to oneself--free. But there is a comfort found in being needed--no, wanted. Desired. I know the darkest tributaries that exist within me: the horrible, isolating, belligerent, unknown horror of my personal existence. "THE FEAR." It's different for everyone, but for me it's a close companion. And more often, I'm reminded that people see it sometimes. They see the load that it is. They offer to carry, if only for a few feet, a few minutes, a few moments. A brief existence. This is humbling and disconcerting and needed and thanks to everyone.
I never expected or wanted to live as far as 50. It's years away but just around the corner. But sometimes it's not about what I want. This is tough to learn. What I want can't always be right. Seeing what others want isn't comfortable in the least. But nothing worth doing is ever easy. Sometimes, you just need to put the work in.
It's a long distance to traverse. Repetition breeds routine; habit. Put the earbuds in. Fire up the new album. Make the walk. I don't want to be around forever. But some people want me to be around. The least I can do is oblige.
Until an asteroid,
Adam
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