Saturday. Quite warm today, in the eighties, a day to open the balcony door and turn on the fan. A day to take naps too, but for other reasons, the head more than wobbly. A walk to the usual cafe for breakfast. Only a half mile or so, but I've been cheating these last many months and driving. I was a little puffed after walking up the hill to my apartment. Life is strange. So easy to fall into if not bad, then other habits. Still, a Saturday, an evening to watch what's left of my Japanese soaps. If they were in English, if they had English subtitles, I'm sure I couldn't watch them. They have all of the depressing aspects of teenage love and angst, but with a weird twist I ascribe to a different culture. It's like trying to glimpse something through a mirror that's reflected in a mirror, that's reflected in a mirror. I'm not sure what I'm watching or why I'm watching. I pick up something, obviously, but what? Still, don't look a gift soap in the mouth. Otherwise I'd have to find other distractions on a Saturday night.
The world is full of distractions invented precisely for a Saturday night.
Ain't it the truth. I've participated in many, usually avoiding scenes held after hours involving naked monkeys dressed in taffeta and K-Y Petroleum Jelly. One has one's limits, after all, here in Oakland.
You're out of your depth.
I'm out of my mind.