I got kicked out of my room due to family this weekend, and, feeling the need to be alone, I jumped in my car and just started driving. Sunday night means nothing to Humble traffic as I found myself sitting through another green light gone bad due to trucks and minivans blocking the intersection, but I did not grow irritated for I had nowhere to go. Memory lane was a straight shot down 1960 and I followed it all the way down to the big “A”. Much of the old neighborhood had changed as rows of trees had been transformed into rows of apartment complexes, but the landmark of Atascocita still sat proudly, cemented into the ground and looking the exact same way it did when I first laid eyes on it ten years ago. I drove by the old house and had to circle around because (as it always happens) someone was behind me denying me the chance to linger. I could still see myself sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette at the fragile age of twelve underneath that street sign that still reads “Magnolia Bend”. I wonder how many of those exist. I drove around for about an hour toking off my one-hitter and pondering the concept of time. I was babbling to myself about how, at the age of thirteen, I never would have seen myself driving around the Jr. High like some perverted child predator, or how ironic past conversations, adolescent attitudes and student half days are to me now. I drove by my best friend’s house who died about six years ago. Why do we do this to ourselves? What is the point? The past that I remembered down memory lane was the past I already knew.
“Most of the afternoon was spent watching a fat man in suspenders trying to fly a pink kite.”
These nervous habits worsen when the scenery fails to change. When I can’t breathe I smoke too much and when I can’t pay I spend too much. Life in my early twenties seems more like a cliché than the best years of my life. It’s okay, I won’t start whining, I’m just bored and ready to be anywhere than here. 3/31/00 (3:00 am)