The Ides of February

Mid-February. Waiting for inspiration is a stupid thing to do. I have a beard that I don't like but when I shave it off all I want is a beard. Sometimes I think I spend most of my waking hours eating food, preparing food or thinking about eating or preparing food. Coffee never tastes as good as it smells. Cigarettes always look cool in the movies and they seem like a good idea after midnight. I can't dribble a basketball with my left hand anymore. I am not sure if I am antsy because I am not content or if I am antsy because I am too content. I check my email way too much.

I am in a perpetual paradox. I want to hit the road but when I am on the road I want to be home. I want chaos and stability at the same time. A frenetic pace surrounded by calmness. I have everything but I don't have anything. I hate this paragraph.

This is the part of winter where I give up. I have fought the good fight for months and continued to brave the elements. I go to shows. Play basketball. I throw on layers and stomp along sidewalks. I get out. But yesterday the wind hit me hard in the face and it broke my spirit. I am hiding inside until it gets warm. Talk to me television. Talk to me.

I just checked my email again.

I take back all the nasty things I said about Valentine's Day. It's a good day. Flowers smell good. I called my mother twice at work and since I was her son they assumed this was some sort of emergency. She got to the phone quite flummoxed and I made a lousy joke about needing instructions for cooking asparagus before wishing her a happy Valentine's Day. That was fun. I got an 'I love you' out of the whole deal. Those don't get old.

I had champagne with my lady. Gift exchange. Rose pedals. My room looks like cupid exploded. It was good. And good is good.

There is a lottery pool at work. I am in said pool. 15 colleagues of mine put in $2 a week and the organizer, or whatever, buys 30 tickets. If we win, we split it 15 ways. I participate for one reason: fear. I fear not putting my $2 in one week and enduring the maniacal breakdown I would suffer by watching my cubicle people frolic in their gambling splendor. Every week, I glare at the man who collects the $2. Every week, he says 'hey man, you don't HAVE to play.' He usually covers me from week to week and then I pay him in lump sums. The only thing consistent with this arrangement is my overall gruff behavior. I don't know why I do certain things.