Croc-crossed ankles. Nalgene nearly empty. Endless ambition. I’m sitting at school, working.
A tall guy stops, says something. I can’t hear him. I take out the headphones. He says you’re the cool English teacher right? He sort of stutters. The cool teacher, I repeat. We both smile. I extend my arm, to shake. Niko, he says. Ryan. Then I put the headphones back in.
The Talking Heads are on. They're singing: stop making sense, stop making sense. I can only take so much so I change it. Type third eye blind into Spotify. No caps. Spotify doesn’t need caps. I click the first song. Semi-charmed Life.
The janitor is named Carl and I’ve known him for two years. Maybe his job title is custodian. We met because I asked him about moonshine. Friends since. Or friendly since. I’m trying to be precise, say what I mean. No more no less.
Tomorrow I’m not going to tell a lie. Jack jump over the candlestick. The next day is the farmer’s market and I have two massages. The day after that is Sunday. And my birthday. And funeral. Living funeral. The crystal white snowflakes in my globe keep settling, you know? Got to shake it up.
My sister said phone breaks are good. I took it personally. 5:45AM-walked the dog with empty ears, phone in pocket. She said boredom breeds brilliance. Said creativity needs space. I wore my white string of earbuds around my neck. You know how they always get tangled? I waste sixty seconds at least twice a day. Unraveling. What if the earbuds could be wrapped into a necklace, I wondered. Just genius.
I asked Mouse if I could go to school to work for a couple of hours. She said yes. So I’m working. Which means writing. Makes me so happy.
I need to get a few more things off my chest. My sister’s roommate said I should watch the Obama documentary. I can’t remember which one. She mentioned multiple. I think we all have multiple personalities. I want a Ford F-150 with four doors. Even though I have nothing to haul. I don’t see the problem. Swift Kitchen is another Facebook diary. It’s so brilliant. So much dirt mind flax and unpunctuated angel hair. If that makes sense.
Lastly. The dog is a teacher of compassion. The lesson? The world is not immediately controllable. The bastard pulls my hand, the leash. The world pulls constantly. Again and again. There's no electric shock collars. Or nose harnesses.
This out-there yoga teacher from Minneapolis said the teacher is everywhere. I’m starting to agree.