I'm listening. Really I am.

I've been laying low, sleeping, driving fast through the early morning fog blasting the Rentals - remembering old songs I still love. I slept eleven hours last night and my pillow sends it's regards.

Ashley drove to the outer reaches of LA County to hang out with me on Friday night, my need for conversation outweighing my desire for solitude. I've been know to turn my friends away from entering my troll like existence in fear of disturbing my thoughts, violating my comfort zone, but mostly forcing me to clean my house a little sooner than I want to.

Not that my house is disgusting or anything like that, I'm just a single guy who can go through periods of laziness and appreciates simplicity in lifestyle. Putting books back on shelves, straightening papers require serious thought to which I dedicated most of Sunday for that bit of work.

This is simple chipmunk survival mode or what I like to call "WWACD?"*, a motto I try to live by. I’ll cook ten meals on Sunday and horde the batches for weekday consuming, freezing the rest until the need for nutrition arises. I dress from the clean clothes still piled in the laundry basket, why bother hanging clothes up if I'm just going to iron them? I wear mostly black socks bought in bulk to stop mismatching in its tracks, elastic disintegration avoided when they no longer have to be bundled in pairs.

Less time getting ready, less confusion, less wear and tear, viva La Vie Boheme!

Okay that’s stupid.

I have a horrible habit to daydream when people are talking to me, such as my boss, my co-workers, and especially significant others. I've come to the conclusion that I really just don't care what most people are saying after the first two sentences. Meetings at work are the worst because I already figured out what needs to be done half the time and I tire of the “Let’s see how many times we can all say the same thing in an easy for the boss to understand manner” game. All the times I’ve sat there nodding in agreement in the conference room or the dinner table with one side of my brain imagining flying off to NY in my invisible Wonder Woman jet, and the other hears only the Charlie Brown "wha wha whan" words of the adult owner.

Anyhow, as I told Ashley that night, this doesn't happen when I'm talking to her, which is a nice change from the wha wha whan of the voices in my head.

*What Would A Chipmunk Do?


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