I hadn’t planned to go rollerblading tonight. If anything I was going to curl up in bed and cry, possibly with alcohol. Just one of those times where my perceptions are getting the better of me – ah nothing is going right! Hateful job plus having an idea for a screenplay clawing to get out daily but no time or privacy to write it plus trying to close on a duplex but getting stalled on the miserable FHA loan process plus Ryan’s renovations from hell reducing my living space to 1/4 of my bedroom and AHHHH!!!
So when Ryan’s fiance and the decorator came over to discuss dining room wallpaper I felt compelled to leave. It was that or snap in a red fury of burning rage and…oh who am I kidding, I would have just gone in to my room in sulked.
Glad I didn’t, because the blading was awesome. I found a smooth country road I have never been on before that went on for miles. On my right the sun was setting on what must have been a flower farm – whole fields of them! On my left the moon was rising over fields of yellow. Just beautiful and very surreal.
I passed a farmer’s bay where big diesel trucks were loading crops. The smell hit my nose and I got very choked up. You wouldn’t think the smell of gasoline and corn would have such an emotional effect, but I was right back on my grandpa’s farm. He’s been gone many years now, but I still found myself missing the big guy.
Already in depressed mode, this added painful nostalgia created a state of melcholyedness. Which lead me to reflect – what would happen I were squished by a tractor out here? In my haste to get away I had left my wallet at home. The only way to ID me would be from my cell phone. The police would have to go through my “Recent Calls” list:
First call – “Son”. When I moved in 4 years ago Ryan started calling me Son, and I started calling him Son (to this day I’m not sure why), but the cops would think it was my son and since I appear to be about 19 the child must be quite young – better to speak to an adult and not to traumatize the lad just yet.
Moving on to the second call – “Boo” Another mutual nickname, this one being my girlfriend. “Boo” came about because we are both very ghetto. Well fairly ghetto anyway. Well just not really ghetto at all – although in all fairness I defy any other white chick to go word for word with Ludacris the way my girl can! But this wouldn’t make much sense to the officer at the scene of the splatter, so moving on.
Third call – “Annette”. Nice normal sounding name. Obviously a close friend or family member. So with a heavy heart they would call Annette to inform her that at approximately 8:23pm last night I effectively became road pizza. Annette would be quite broken up, possibly even devastated. The police would console her on her loss, which in this case would be about 1% commission on the FHA loan which I would now be unable to secure from beyond the grave. Annette is my loan officer working on the duplex. At least she could have helped me get a good deal on a plot.
But I’m home in one piece now and perceptions are improving – everything is going to be ok 
Still haven’t ruled out the alcohol though.