If I were pressed to tell where I go when I 'go out', that is, where I am, other than work and my mother's apartment, there's a park I sometimes sit in, but really there's CVS. I spend any free time that's not at home (or this little park by the library) at CVS, intentionally, and not. I mean, fuck, it's open 24 hours and there are other people there, which is more than I can say about anywhere else I'd go.
It is about a cigarette's smoking away, so often where I end up while out smoking, it's also the nearest bench to work that's well-lit, so I often stop there on the way home when we close (around 11, just when the bars are packing) to read or write a few pages and call Ilana to share celebrity gossip or talk about whether or not she should kiss the boy that she's eventually going to kiss, regardless.
I think what I'm saying is that I'm a bit sick of the benches around CVS, and I'm certainly sick of the creepy looks I get from the dude that seems always to be there (though he never works the overnight shift) when I come back for the third time in one day to just get some bread (honestly, my mother sent me).
I've a report with the woman who works the night shifts, though. She gave me shit just now (on my third trip of the day) about not getting cigarettes. She's nice, and grumpy, and knows I don't give a toss that she's grumpy, but appreciate it, and so complains all the more so about the college kids and their late night romances. She was disappointed all I got was pens. It's a hard choice, that
pens I wanted quantity but that, they didn't have other than the shit hard plastic ones that teachers always seem to have so no one can get away with saying they've forgot their pen to class and which always break in your mouth when you chew 'em not that I'm a pen chewer. So I spent a while in the pen and paper isle and could swear to God that someone was listening to Nick Cave somewhere in the store I stayed for about the duration of "Darker With the Day" but got worried that it'd be strange that I was just standing in place for so long so went to sit in what is quickly becoming my nighttime spot on the bench trying to finish writing a letter and to postpone this overquiet of my mother's office floor.
...... yeah. that's normally it.
When it's something 'suitable' (har har) I make my mother watch my favorite movies. She does this cute thing that I've only know in the Catholic and the old - she really quickly takes breath in, like she's about to be dunked, and turns her head to her breasts, when something violent is on screen. For some reason, I guess 'cos she's, you know, Irish, and vaguley interested in good things, I thought it would be a good idea to show her The Butcher Boy (it may just have been because I had Mac the Knife stuck in my head...). There were rather a lot of hidden giggles at 'cusswords' and she, at one point, claimed that it must not have been filmed in Ireland because "there aren't any allies like that in Ireland ... maybe it was the North." (!!??) This long preamble is basically getting to the fact that I don't get The Butcher Boy. I mean, I enjoy it, partly because it's hilarious and sad and I fucking adore Neil Jordan almost as much as I adore Stephen Rae but it's a really strange movie. Lots of totally unbelievable characters, whcih I couldn't care less about, but I guess I just don't get the motivation of anyone in a customary way. It feels like one of ole Nick's Murder Ballads ... just a simple story of killing and hope
It is about a cigarette's smoking away, so often where I end up while out smoking, it's also the nearest bench to work that's well-lit, so I often stop there on the way home when we close (around 11, just when the bars are packing) to read or write a few pages and call Ilana to share celebrity gossip or talk about whether or not she should kiss the boy that she's eventually going to kiss, regardless.
I think what I'm saying is that I'm a bit sick of the benches around CVS, and I'm certainly sick of the creepy looks I get from the dude that seems always to be there (though he never works the overnight shift) when I come back for the third time in one day to just get some bread (honestly, my mother sent me).
I've a report with the woman who works the night shifts, though. She gave me shit just now (on my third trip of the day) about not getting cigarettes. She's nice, and grumpy, and knows I don't give a toss that she's grumpy, but appreciate it, and so complains all the more so about the college kids and their late night romances. She was disappointed all I got was pens. It's a hard choice, that
pens I wanted quantity but that, they didn't have other than the shit hard plastic ones that teachers always seem to have so no one can get away with saying they've forgot their pen to class and which always break in your mouth when you chew 'em not that I'm a pen chewer. So I spent a while in the pen and paper isle and could swear to God that someone was listening to Nick Cave somewhere in the store I stayed for about the duration of "Darker With the Day" but got worried that it'd be strange that I was just standing in place for so long so went to sit in what is quickly becoming my nighttime spot on the bench trying to finish writing a letter and to postpone this overquiet of my mother's office floor.
...... yeah. that's normally it.
When it's something 'suitable' (har har) I make my mother watch my favorite movies. She does this cute thing that I've only know in the Catholic and the old - she really quickly takes breath in, like she's about to be dunked, and turns her head to her breasts, when something violent is on screen. For some reason, I guess 'cos she's, you know, Irish, and vaguley interested in good things, I thought it would be a good idea to show her The Butcher Boy (it may just have been because I had Mac the Knife stuck in my head...). There were rather a lot of hidden giggles at 'cusswords' and she, at one point, claimed that it must not have been filmed in Ireland because "there aren't any allies like that in Ireland ... maybe it was the North." (!!??) This long preamble is basically getting to the fact that I don't get The Butcher Boy. I mean, I enjoy it, partly because it's hilarious and sad and I fucking adore Neil Jordan almost as much as I adore Stephen Rae but it's a really strange movie. Lots of totally unbelievable characters, whcih I couldn't care less about, but I guess I just don't get the motivation of anyone in a customary way. It feels like one of ole Nick's Murder Ballads ... just a simple story of killing and hope