I spotted a squished lanternfly inside this building, in the lobby. They must have penetrated the offices, and the cubes. With cooling weather they should slow down but I squished two today, and spotted numerous others squished before me.
For some reason a lyrice from a Beach Boys song is stuck in my head, but with a twist. I think the real line is “You shouldn’t have lied, girl, you shouldn’t have lied.” In my mind I’m hearing “You shouldn’t have lied, Lord, you shouldn’t have lied.”
Did God ever lie? I’m not even going to look that up. God lied to Job, saying that no amount of faith and obedience to Him would quarantee earthly happiness or security, only to reward Job handsomely for his obedience.
The ATM room at Chase on Broadway and Fulton is always surreal. An alarm is constantly ringing, for what transgression I know not but no one seem to mind. You would think an alarm going off in an ATM room would be concerning to someone but it’s been going off for months.
Today’s extra does of surreal came from what appeared, from the outside of the place, to be a homeless person changing his clothes. I’d heard many ATMs closed for the overnight to keep homeless from basically living in them.
It was not a homeless dude. It was the security guard putting on his security guard clothes. I don’t feel too jibber-jabbered for having assumed otherwise.
The new ATMs are also so strange. How did they get through any non-sycophantic review process? They clutch your bank card, just like the olden days of the Citigroup machines that took the card and swallowed it if you couldn’t remember your PIN or if the bank just did not like you.
When the cash comes out it looks like it is at the bottom of a bucket. I reach in for it certain my hand will be severed by the closing door if I do not pluck back the cash fast enough. Without fail I always think I left a bill behind. Something inside the bucket, toward the bottom, looks like it could be a twenty. Thus I always double check my take, uncertain what I would do if my usual $100 was only $80 because I fell for a sort of optical illusion. Would I have had to interrupt the security guard getting dressed to see about getting my lost $20 bill?
I did ot expect the woman to be on hand today, Labor Day, but there she was. I choose another breakfast place going forward, not entirely because the flirtations betwixt this woman and I got uncomfortable but also because the other place is just better. They have seating, for one thing. And the food just looks better. It might just be the lighting but dem eggz looks fiiiiine. And the seating is choice. Until now I’ve used the public space at 100 William Street, always feeling kind of ghetto about it.
Yesterday was intended to be a day at home, at the desk, doing things I never do anymore because I can’t stand being in the same place for 24 years. I want out of the place. Sometimes I think I want out of everything. So instead of crafting that algorithm-busting cover letter I walked. I checked on the abandoned truck in Woodside, abandoned for months and seemingly immovable no matter how many times it’s reported to The City. I checked on a bunch of payphnes, fo course, including a couple that had gotten away from me with respect to their exact location. I always thought them to be on 34th Avenue around 75th Street. I could have simply dug up my photos of them or gone Streetview but I like to keep my wanderings somewhat serendipidous. It’s also not exactly critical that I observe this particular structure, a Janusian pair of abandoned Van Wagner payphones left behind probably since 2014 or 2105. I forget offhand when Van Wagner got acquired by CBS Outdoor Media, or if that’s even what happened. Did they just rebarnd? I don’t know, it’s easy to look up, most likely.
I just took a hearty, hearty dump. The toilet paper here is no Charmin Ultra but it’s not sandpaper, either. It’s passable.
I’d read that in some offices and workspaces toilets are designed uncomfortably, to prevent workers from getting too comfy and spending all day on the shitter. I don’t doubt it but Ialso ask if I’m the only one to experience toilets such that I have to press down my junk to keep from pissing straight forward onto the floor and onto my dropped pants. I don’t consider myself extravagentlywell-hung but there toilets seem somehow designed to lift my junk up parallele to the floor, with the only direction to urinate being straight forward. I have learned to press my junk downward to avoid this little fiasco, but should this gesture really be necessary?
It might be that anxiety, morning mas, the fact that I find cool breezes and the swirls of air conditioning as erotic as a woman’s touch, the fact that I see boobies any time I close my eyes… this and other mental exuberances have me living in a state of semi-hardness pretty much all the time. But I don’t know, and I don’t intend to qui other men as to whether they find that the design of our corporate shitters makes them involuntarily piss forward onto the floor.
My body responds to my mind in crazy ways. I sleep like I am wrestling with The Lord, constantly jolting and lurching about, my ever-familiar boner flailing the same as my arms and head. I constantly seek a position that prevents me from breathing on myself. I always have to ask and triple-ask women not to do that. DOn’t breathe on me, please. They seem to think it’s sweet, and maybe other bodies would think of it that way. To me it’s just kinda nasal and nostrily.
I don’t know if the extra anxiety medz are going to do anything today. I still feel jacked and jaded a ½ hour after gorging on a double dose of Lorazapam plus all the BP stuff. Going to be a very distractable day.
