Happy. Disheveled.

This guy is pretty dang happy this morning.  Check it!

Birchwood Cafe

I began this internet document to track my own movement from being a damned mess physically — I smoked about 30 cigarettes a day in 2008 when I first attended to the effort — financially — I really didn’t have much of a job then — emotionally — actually, I’ve generally been vaguely optimistic, sort of happy, in the face of serious financial and physical ruin, which is good –spiritually, socially, academically, philosophically, chemically, environmentally, etc. to a better state (maybe Utah).

Has that movement happened?  Well, maybe it sort of did.  Okay, it did to a large extent, but somehow not at all.  No.  No go.  What?

I realized at some point that the whole point of the blog was essentially the whole point of the entire walnut, if you catch my drift.  You, stupid-ass internet blog, you are my everything.

The mess is in a very clean, healthy spot this morning.  Mr. Clean.  And, by the way, it’s sunny outside like a television commercial for good smelling product.

And, here it is!  Granola at the Birchwood Cafe, which I find puts me and my walnut into an entirely better place, emotionally, physically (although not financially) than Denny’s did, yesterday (Moons Over My Hammy is a brilliantly conceived breakfast sandwich — both in content and name — that makes me feel like hell, because it is meant to kill a person with flavor — butter flavor).  My granola has yogurt and fruit added to it. Such healthy ramifications.

Yogurt and Fruit, Etc.

Here’s what’s not happening: good work.  Why am I out for breakfast alone?  I don’t know. Do I sit at my computer and work?  No.

Instead, I float around my apartment, in my big-assed house, staring at other peoples’ books or messing with gadgets that have no batteries.  Instead, I go to the gym, where I cannot exercise hard, due to an injury to my lower leg (recurring, gazelle impeding).  Instead, I stare out the window and think about the sharp grass and the unfinished fence and the strewn red-hot Cheet-o trash and the smoking fire pit and the packed parking lot and the browning tree and the giant, empty flower pots that sit under bushes on one side of the property.

Herbach is more disheveled.  Not so much a mess.

Disheveled.

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