Yesterday I got stoned and went to the park. It’s one of my favorite things to do. There’s something therapeutic about taking a stroll after you’ve been cooped up in one room all day; there’s something magical about doing it while stoned.
I’ve been reverted back to a light weight. Three puffs and I was done. Three puffs and the sinewy shadows of the oaks played on the backs of cars and made me feel like they were moving every which way besides forward. I sat on a bench and journaled, but couldn’t concentrate because there were so many voices around me, coming closer to me. So I took a walk.
Forsyth Park is sometimes this wonderful place. Other times it’s a cess pool crawling with Savannah’s finest weirdos and homeless population. The Spanish oaks reach high above you, their branches twisting to create a massive dome of moss. I was walking along the sidewalk, passing benches where men watched me with hollowed out eyes. The smell of patchouli and body odor was thick in the air. But you keep your focus ahead because you’re dazed and stoned and not really there.
Usually I pick a patch of grass and sprawl out, but yesterday I wanted to walk. I walk through the park and I walk around it. Around it are joggers of all shapes and sizes and a few dog walkers. Two one-way streets edge the park, one going into town, the other going out of town, and the joggers keep with the direction of traffic. I, however, prefer to walk opposite. I imagine I annoy the joggers, but they’re too “in the zone” to bother with me. So you walk against the stream, glancing at everybody who passes you huffing and puffing. People run in so many different ways.
I spent all day reading interviews with authors on the Paris Review. (highly recommend) So my mind was in a rather inspired state.
What else is there to say?
Last night I saw that my ex has a girlfriend now. I love Facebook for these purposes. My inner stalker comes out. He posted a picture of himself sitting on a bench, wearing the same exact clothes that he wore when I dated him. The same black pair of slims and a black shirt with a red and white logo on it. The pants are splattered with a little more paint than they used to have, but otherwise, he looks exactly the same.
Speaking of inner stalker status, I found my crush on Facebook. I knew his first name, now I know his last name. I know that he’s in a band and plays the electric cello. I know where he’s from and where he went to school. I know which shows he goes to, I’m tempted to attend one and make my move on him. What I need to do is lock myself in my room and gorilla glue my ass to the desk, but we all know that won’t happen, not tonight. But tonight we’re going to his bar. We call it Trashy Treehouse, because it’s trashy. I only go there because of the cute bartender. I walk in and our eyes connect and the entire night is spent stealing glances.
I’ve told myself in the past that cute guys with eyes should stay just that. There’s a special romance between unspoken persons. Why ruin that perfectly good moment by talking? We’re just going to ruin it. Last time I thought the bartender was cute I decided to slip him my number, and I went out with him, and it was horrible. Now I can’t go to that bar.
Good thing I don’t like Trashy Treehouse all that much.
Uh… what else.
Going to New York in a week. Did I mention that I’m broke as fuck? Don’t ask me how I’m managing that. (Barely.)
Work tonight. It’s raining. I don’t want to work, but I need to because of the aforementioned trip to New York.
Anyways, this has been a pointless update on things. My life is a walk in the park, in a slightly creepy park. Until next time.