Blisters are like walnuts.
At least the ones I have. They look just like them. I spent the last six hours using a weed wacker, my arms glistening and being pissy in the sun, falling heavy when I told them specifically not to. Now I got seven blisters on both of my hands that look like little fleshy walnuts, the kind that leech onto your skin and tempt you to marvel at some supernova’s cosmic power to make such little fuckers packed with puss and water hurt like hell. I also can’t stop touching it and I’m feeling like I’m fifteen again.
Not all for nothing though.
Today was my first day as a landscaper and a personal guy for an Art Gallery in the East Village. It’s a lofty place. Lots of ivy and overfed cats. Just outside of the gallery is a public Green Thumb operation project that leads to the gallery’s Sculpture garden; tires become faces and old electric chairs become rusted electric chairs. Here, you wonder if the half-cracked bottle of Sailor Jerry is a sculpture or an act of revolution all on its own, ‘Jerry’s Crack’. There’s wild strawberry and blackberry and plenty of bees, I’m feeling like there’s Dorothy and I’m Toto and we’re stuck somewhere in between Kansas and No-Longer-in-Kansas; there’s a statue replica of Djimon Hounsou from Amistad.
I’m busting up some weeds 2 days a week, $120 or 12 hours. Tomorrow I have two more interviews as well as my internship and production meeting for a play of mine that’s going up come October. It’s about breastfeeding your seventeen-year-old.
When I came home, I reeked like a giant tree and hoped I’d be able to blossom up a couple bananas or so. Alas, I settled for some Tuna, Coffee, and Vanilla Protein Shake.
The coffee came from the land of Folger’s and tasted just as such. I sometimes wish every cup I drink of the stuff can be somewhat like the commercials, maybe one morning I can be sipping on some C and all of a sudden, some Yanni-wannabe starts to echo in piano around the living room and my Ma will enter with a pot of picadillo and some Johnny Walker Black and a free ride on my tuition.
Instead, I pop open my can of tuna, sprinkle some Goya Sason Completa, and squeeze out a couple spoons worth of Sriracha. The artist’s feast. It tastes how it sounds and it’s actually pretty good. I think the fact knowing that it’s pure protein matched with some spicy juice direct deposited from the Garden of Eden really adds to the zing. I then hit up my body with some vanilla whey protein shake and decided to let the good times roll. I haven’t left my bed since.
When it comes to whey protein- I’ve found it’s a really great option for those trying to live on a budget. You’re putting out $35 dollars for 14 days worth of breakfast or meal substitute. Granted, I could be a real little shit and be even more economical- buying bread and eggs. But the whey metabolizes my body and gives it enough energy and protein for the day ahead that might not consist of any other meals, let alone snack binges.
For some reason, I always feel the need to act more expensive whenever I go out. When I’m home, I’d knock myself for considering buying some Subway- goddamn ‘bravocado’ sandwiches always eyeing me, winking at me, calling me out, riffing on my addiction to avocado and sugary carbo-loaded bread.
When I go out, it’s suddenly as if I’m trying so hard to forget about being poor.
I don’t understand my desire to save all of my money throughout the week and then decide to suddenly blast it all away on a couple or several tall boys or glasses of Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Sometimes, it’s almost as if I’m trying to deny the fact that I was ever saving money at all… ‘No, not me, I don’t do that.’ Late nights out on the weekend and when I’m low on dough and I race off to the ATM- bet your ass I never take the receipt, I never even ask for it back. I don’t wanna know. I suddenly feel indignant, as if slapping my own hand away, telling my cocky-ass self ‘you don’t deserve to know how badly you’re screwing yourself up. Go have another drink you slobbering bastard.’
Contrastingly, 5-6 meals at my house and suddenly I’m feeling all chipper and dandy and looking at my bank account. ‘Maybe I can splurge on a two-dollar cup of coffee today!’ I think to myself.
Sometimes, I wonder if it’s because of the company I surround myself with. With the boyf- he and I have talked endlessly about my fiscal responsibilities and about my inability to face any of them. We still go out though and I still feel bad at the idea of never being able to match his weekend, even though he pleads with me not to. I’m trying and for the most part, it’s working and I’ve still never doubted feeling invincible around him. With my friends; come the weekend (Thursday), we’re rocking out and swiping down our cards at Duane Reade for some bud lights and the occasional pack of Camel Blues. Sometimes a Praline Mix that tastes like mulch, but I convince myself it really boasts a solid sweet and salty contradiction.
I think it comes down to this idea of immediacy that I’ve rehearsing and practicing with myself every single day. I had this idea that I would walk out of school with a degree in having a plan that’s already working. Contrastingly as a freshman, I never spent my money because I was so set on that idea and maybe I was thinking more advantageously assuming that the money I saved then would go towards my vacation time in Iceland or Croatia. Maybe the reason I’m spending so much nowadays is because I’m terrified at the realization that I’m walking out of this school with a degree in being at the bottom of the food chain, again. Maybe I blast it all away because I’m still wondering, ‘what’s the point?’, and if not that, then maybe it’s something along the idea that regardless of where I am or what I’m doing, sometimes, that Thursday is all that matters, and I gotta do everything in my capacity to make it the greatest damned night on Earth.
Either way, I think my room needs a couple posters of Iceland.