My Cubicle. 1/31/2021

It's cramped in here and tragically dull. I have many thoughts, ideas, and hopes that bounce like helium balloons around the cubicle of my brain.

My apartment is quiet except for the noises from the fridge. 

My old man is at high risk for COVID. I don't see him much as it is, which is painful. I fear the day I move away from this dreaded swamp for colder mountain air. He loves Florida, so there is a good chance I'll never see him again. Florida has never been good to my siblings or me, always dealing heavy hands against our large bets. 

Thinking back on it, I should've stayed in Colorado. If I lasted a few more days until I eventually fell asleep (I'll talk about this memory in the next blog), I would be fine. Now, I'm in a town I don't want to be in, working a job I despise while in a state I'd rather not live in. This is torture, unfiltered torture.

My only pal is Jeremy. For 13 years, I've known that fella. And a goodfella he is. However, it will become that kind of friendship you rekindle once a year at a local sports bar, served beer and overcooked wings by scantly clad waitresses. I understand that's how it usually ends up; people start to have their own lives that aren't connected or anchored in yours, so things become distant. It's not like that now, but it is down to twice or so a month.

Inside my cramped cubicle, all I have is my reflection, and I don't dare to make eye contact with it.