I’m fairly well fucked today. Check that, not fairly well fucked but rather fully. I’m in a miniscule life raft, at the epicenter of a Perfect Storm, sharks are circling, and I just found a leak. Basically sitting in the corner wide-eyed and crying, muttering out loud about “There were just too many of them. We couldn’t hold the line. Danny. Danny’s head was in my lap. Just his head. Where did Danny’s body go? Danny? THERE WERE JUST TOO MANY OF THEM GODDAMNIT!!!” I can’t function. I’m pouring water from my glass into my lap. I’m typing into my scarf. I picked up my phone and tried to call a tree. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind.
What caused this post-hurricane wreckage in my person today?
C) Family tragedy?
D) None of the above
The answer is D. I walked out the door this morning WITHOUT my daily planner. It just isn’t in my satchel. I’ve looked, many times, despite knowing I left it on the kitchen island and my wife having confirmed as much. What do you do? Yes, I realize my iPhone has at least 69 applications for this but I don’t give a shit. I want to feel the planner in my hand. I want trees to die to get it there. I am comforted by the sight of my beautiful handwriting on cream stock (My cursive is routinely mistaken for a woman’s. In the St. Vincent De Paul handwriting challenges of my youth the last men standing were always Zach and Chrissy. I still maintain my handwriting was superior to Chrissy’s. Sure, she had some chickish accoutrements such as exaggerated loops and theatrical dotting of I’s. But ask someone who wants to get to the heart of the matter whose cursive was superior; ask them off the record. They’re going Zach all the way, I guarangoddamntee it). I haven’t the foggiest what I’m supposed to do today, the weekend, anything. I worked out this morning. I can’t cross it off my to do list for the day until at the earliest 6pm. And that is assuming an on time train departure and being able to successfully side-step my daughter’s hug through the door tonight. As if that isn’t harrowing enough ponder this: What if someone asks if I can do something on some day beyond today? Such as, “Hey Zach, are you able to do beers on Thursday?” Um, how in the FUCK am I supposed to answer that?!?! If I find an old femur bone lying around I’m going to start smashing the shit out of people with it. My daily planner is critical to basic functioning. It is the wellspring from which I flow. Without my planner it is as though I never were. I don’t give a McMutherfuck if I could do the same, easier, on my iPhone. What if a gaggle of rowdy teens steals it on the L train? Then what am I doing late June of this year, genius? Only the teens will know.
Sitting in a dark, wet cave with no flint, no moonlight, no weapon, and I can hear the low growling begin. I just don’t know how hungry it is……..