The Wasteland
This month, I’ve had visits from Californians and one Chicagoan; went to Baltimore for a comic book convention (slept on a recliner in Anapolis and was watched by a foursome of friendly cats); went back to Chico for a wedding (congrats John and Mandy); and pretended to be hip one night at CMJ (saw Clipse at the Spin Party at the Highline Ballroom, and they rocked). Last night at a Halloween party, I was co-winner of funniest costume (I was Bunsen Honeydew, my friend was Beaker). It was alarming how little I had to do to myself to look like Bunsen Honeydew.
Now, I have .60 cents in my checking account, a tad over $5 in my savings (at last check, I’m afraid to look again until Friday); four singles in my wallet and $17 in change in the bank on my dresser (emergency booze fund).
I can’t bring myself to do anything. Two nights ago, I passed out on the couch. When I woke up, my chest hurt so bad I couldn’t lift my arms without grimacing. I miust’ve pulled something in my sleep. That’s what I told myself when I dragged my ass up to bed in order to stave off fears that I was having a heart attack.
Until further notice, I will be playing Fallout 3, which is addictive, despite how awful I am at it. I’m playing it on easy and still can’t figure out how to roam through subway tunnels without getting mauled to death by dogs. The corridors are dark, and I get dizzy after 20 minutes, but right now, it’s theraputic to cap mutants in the noggin with an assault rifle.
