We Come to Our Senses

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TODAY I PHONED and had a cup of coffee, created/distributed a handful of B-20s, then phoned and had a cup of coffee. We ran out of powder creamer, but there were creams from McDonald’s in the break area mini-fridge, which I just disinfected. Around 4:40 I decided to cruise hyperlinks until close of business. There was something about our President, and news that a small plane had crashed somewhere in Illinois. A sullen pop diva will guest-star on a Thursday night prime-time. It’s sweeps. Her crimson lips were parted in the photo, and for an instant I couldn’t help but picture myself ejaculating — I guess. Accurate or not, I felt despicable, and quickly went to scrub my hands. I must remember to remember her name, to purchase her recordings. I drove home.

HOME, where the shows are on. Between five-thirty and seven: utter contentment. The reruns allow me to nod off for a few, and then rejoin any story, anytime, without worry. They showed us these same shows in the female barracks’ dayroom, and in the females’ Quonset at the marshaling base, and you could even watch them at forward ops (where we shared the rec tent with the men). Usually a nap, followed by a quick Swiffer-sweep of the apartment, will help me to unwind, before the new episodes come on at seven. I know everything, until the new episodes come on, at seven.

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