Forever Home

I am laying in my bed right now, Lindell West living. This bed is the most comfortable of all time, there is no bed that compares. If Kate Bekinsale wanted to go back to her hotel room after meeting me at a bar, i would at least try to convince her to come back here.

I know how long i have to make figure 8s in the lobby based on what floor the vator is on. I know that the back elevator is slow as hell, and when you come in the back way it is way easier just to take it, but right about floor 7 you wonder if you are doing to die in the slowest elevator of all times.

UPDATE 9/15: Finding this draft 4 1/2 months later has made me reflect on what the hell truly happened in 1306W. The fond memories i have do not come to mind first, but rather the soul crushing nights that happened instead. While smoking out the bathroom window while sitting on the edge of the tub when i was too cold or lazy to go out to the porch is a good story, it just reminds me of staring off into the sky over the lights and into the stars, wondering in a bad way. As i sit here, this couch that i have made my home over the last 4 days, in a new, supposedly better apt, i wish that i could at least see the buildings of clayton again, instead of the blank walls. I hope to be a better man for what i went through in 1306, but i fear that all i really did there was cement myself as content with some good, any good at all. That i was able to ignore the nights i spent silent, alone in the dark because i knew that the sun would come out, so no action was required. I think nightly now about getting into Junior and setting off after the setting sun. Not stopping till i ran out of gas, only to abandon the hoopdie and hitchhike until i found myself somewhere. But i am too much of a coward to do something like that, something that would require me to accept that i must enact change for change to come. It has come about, like all realizations, because of loneliness, in this case a great sense of it. I love my friends but we aren't new to each other any more, and when we get together its more like we are reading from a script till we all get to go home. I want spontinaity back, but as i claim that i am still laying on this couch, at 6 o'clock in the morning, having done nothing in days. I feel that i may just be old, and that it is over for me. I am done, and have been since 1306, but i just hadn't realized it until now. There is a reason that nothing i write has a happy ending any more, and it's probably because i don't foresee any type of happy ending, just a drawn out life with a few specs of self-awareness that don't amount to anything. But hey, why would my life be any different than it has in the last 10 months? When i worry about it, i just remember the NASCAR turns and the figure 8s in the lobby, and think, "well, it wasn't all bad."