I specialize in speculation

I’m drinking one of those bottled cokes even though I don’t like coke and it makes my lips sticky.

My dog curls next to me, stares at me, wants something that I can’t figure out.  I stare back at him and say

what? I just took you out.

He gets up, walks away, defeated.

I drank five beers today and felt full.  I watched movies I’ve seen a million times and wrote ideas for stories I’ll never write, but maybe think about.  I went for walks with the pup and watched him pee on every spot, perk his ears at a wondering Schnauzer and jerk my arms towards each tree we pass.  My eyes teared up at that part on The Shawshank Redemption when the old dude kills himself.  It was probably because I was buzzed off those five beers. Or, you know, maybe it was ’cause shit always makes me cry lately.

I like spending days on my giant, red futon but when I look at my computer clock and see how late it is I feel fucking lazy and unproductive.  I feel this is obviously not my fault.  OBVIOUSLY.  Fuck time or whatever.

Tomorrow is work.  I’ll drive there on the freeway and listen to that comp CD I’ve had in and then I’ll say "good morning" and my office mate will say "what’s up, gang banger" ’cause that’s what he always says.  I’ll turn my lap top on say, "oh, you know, just bangin’."  I’ll edit bad writing all day, maybe get to write an article on Native American Jewelry or reviews on the latest electronic quilting software.  I’ll chat with the IT guy about movies and cereal and good comedy and black sit coms.  The office mate and I will try and impress each other with our vast knowledge of obscure, indie music and he’ll maybe talk shit to me about something I sent him that "sucks."  I’ll exchange flirtacious text messages with the boyfriend and eat strawberries and Easy Mac.  I’ll worry about money, get paranoyed when cops get behind me, obsess over my food consumption, crave a beer, flat iron my hair, walk the dog, wash my hands, drink green tea in the morning, feel like a failure, act like a failure, curl up on the futon and blog on here again.

This, of course, is all speculation.

I’m bored, sore, sleepy.  The boyfriend will be over when he gets off at work at midnight.  He’ll come home and ask me for a play by play of how I spent my time today without him.  He’ll set his stuff down, brush his teeth and crawl into bed.  He’ll put his hands on me and ask me things like, "are you happy?"  I’ll watch the dark wall and say, "yeah, of course."

Again, speculation.

My blogs used to be funny.  Now they’re just depressing.  Like your Mom.