It's All About Motivation

This is more of a passing thought than an actual post, but I wish I had as much ambition to do chores and homework as I do to clean up my house when I know someone is coming over. My house would look like the ones in the Mr. Clean commercials and I would have my midterms done on the first week of every semester.

White Light

I guess what I'm really looking for is a sense of beauty in the world. I want something to keep my negativity at bay and remind me of all the finer things in life. It comes to me in the form of a passionate lover or as a girl whose inner beauty matches her perfect physical shape.

Why must my life drag me through so much negativity just for a few fleeting glimpses of true beauty? I've tried desperately to hold on to them, but everything in this world shifts and changes. The ocean reaches its waving arms up to embrace the moon's pull. The mountains are lifted up beyond the cloudy sky by the ground at their feet. The desert sands ebb and flow in a wind that buries shinning jewels and quiet oases that once revived dehydrated nomads from almost certain death. All these changes, whether rapid or gradual can be witnessed, but never fully grasped by the human mind alone.

So next, I attempted to save and catalogue every aspect of this pure light that I could capture; errant sketches of the female form, sexy photographs of past lovers, inspired stories from previous exploits, all in a desperate attempt to remind myself of enough good things in the world to balance out all of my frustrated failures and let downs. I want to have the bright radiance of the universe at my fingertips, keep it on tap, but it just doesn't work that way. Once the sketch is complete the moment has passed. Pictures fade. Memories are wildly imperfect and start to slip away. Time affects people just as lunar gravity pulls on the earth. All you see is the reaction, the fallout from some great, invisible force.

And, the forces of the world are always at work. They are most noticeable when it comes to people. Daily, I deal with egotistical supervisors imposing their impromptu rules to make themselves feel more powerful. Complacent lawmen regulate laws based not on right or wrong, but on which ones help them complete that month's bingo-card-style ticket quota. Why should he care if he just ruined the next year of your life? Shift bid is coming up next month and he wants weekends off. The current system is designed to keep people where they are. The rich don't want to share their money with anyone and the poor are too busy surviving day-to-day to do anything about it.

So here I am, going through my own biweekly poverty cycle. On work-days I'm struggling to eat on a schedule and trying to arrange for small computer fix-it jobs for the weekends to supplement my income, all the while waiting for next payday. My time off consists of sleepless nights researching, fixing computers, or just plain fits of penniless depression with a sinking feeling that I should be doing something to make more money. Paychecks simply disintegrate as I slip them into metal drop boxes for the tellers at the bank. Bills, food, and computer replacement parts all perpetuate the cycle by being all-too-expensive necessities.

All in all, it's turning me into some kind of Zen master. I'm standing outside of myself just watching these things happen. Why am I even here? What am I actually struggling so hard for? I don't want to be homeless, but there's got to be something I'm missing. I don't necessarily want to be rich. That's never been a main goal in my life. I just don't want to worry about getting evicted or whether I have enough money to eat something for breakfast tomorrow, and most of all, I want to be happy. That's really what's missing. Sometimes people skip meals or get behind on bills, but the thing that will totally wreck them every time is if what truly makes them happy is taken from them. And, in my case, I just can't hold on to it.

Back to the Drawing Board

This life of mine isn't always orgies and whip cream. It's as it has always been, a stream of quiet nights interrupted by occasional crazy sexual experiences. Things can quickly change from being cuddled up to a naked body under satin sheets to sleepless nights sitting in front of a buzzing computer screen. Home-cooked lunches change to grab-and-go fast food five days a week. Thankfully, vodka is still vodka though.

I live my life like the ebb and flow of the ocean, just waiting for the tide to come back in. Waiting for the burst of energy that you can only get when you connect with another person and get to know them for the first time. Waiting to be intoxicated again with all the possibilities of what may be. I'm here, looking out to the ocean at night. Just staring into the dark, listening for clues of the next icy wave crashing upon the rocky shore. Waiting for my next chance to live. But there is no wind, there's no breeze and the water is silent for the time being.

It's an odd occasion and I find that there is a feeling that overtakes me that simply cannot be put into words. It's not a plateau, not a valley, a little like a dense gray fog on a cloudy night, but not quite. The only real way to describe it is to explain how it affects me.

My creativity, for example has always been fueled by my mood and I try to use whatever medium I can to best express myself. I feel like these methods are constantly evolving, but sometimes something grabs me so hard that I'm reverted back to my previous forms of creation. Back before Photoshop or spray paint stencils, even before I bought my guitar. Hell, I'm not even any good at guitar, but it does help me relax and that is one thing that I have a serious problem with. But before I had blisters on my fingers and hand cramps I was putting ink on paper. I would find myself hunched over my desk with dark stains on my fingertips intently focused on my work. No room for thought or distractions. And that is my meditation.

I rarely go back to a piece of work once I put the pen down so I would have to stay up until it was finished. Long after everyone else had gone to bed I would be there sketching away line after line until I was done. My eyes would go blurry and my brain would shut off, but with a little caffeine and a quiet radio station I would have something that I could be proud of in the end and that was all that mattered. After that I would sleep more soundly than ever before and wake up feeling refreshed the next day.

And because of this, the solitude is comforting in a sad way. It's the calm before the storm, the night just before the dawn. Hopefully, that means the breeze will soon blow the waves in again and release me from where I stand along the shore, waiting.

Burning Man (Chapter Two)

Everything in the human body has more than one purpose or can be used to accomplish more than one thing. If the physical make up of a person is that versatile why shouldn't the intangible parts be the same way?

-The Burning Man.

That night I dreamed of breakfast, the hot waitress, and Shotgun was there too. The world had been destroyed. Everything was as normal except for the post-apocalyptic scenery and the complete lack of people. Truck stops were normally pretty dead at 3 AM on a Sunday morning, but this was different. All of the semi-trucks in the parking lot had been long abandoned and the streets were completely devoid of people. The nearby interstate was quiet on this dark night. It was just me and the street lights as I parked my car in my usual spot in front of the main door.

Inside, Shotgun was waiting for me and we spoke solemnly during our meal. There he was in his infinite strangeness looking just as normal as ever. It was something like what Tyler Durden would look like with dyed hair. It was a color scheme we called "The Strawberry". Most of his hair was a bright red color except for a circle of green that was off center and a little towards the back. He had the ring through the center of his nose just like when I had first met him and, above that, over-sized, white-framed, 80's sunglasses. He was the type of person that stood out in a crowd, but yet it all seemed to suit him.

And there we sat; two peas in a pod. One wreathed in never-ending flames and the other all bright, bold colors. The waitress, pretty as ever, just kept on with her normal routine as if nothing was out of the ordinary. She treated that night as if it was any other work night. Like in the morning all the truckers would flood in and another waitress would relieve her at seven.

There would be no people though. I know. I waited. Long after Shotgun and I had finished eating and said our goodbyes I sat on a ledge outside and watched the sun come up. No one interrupted the orange, silent morning until the waitress, Alley I believe her name was, pushed open the heavy glass door to exit the restaurant and jangled her car keys out of her pocket.

I watched as she strode across the wide, open parking lot to her car where she got in and it vroomed to life. Then, she drove to the end of the lot and headed south towards the now dark street lights that I passed on my way here. Shotgun had never left the restaurant, but I knew he was no longer inside.

"I think I'll head west today." I said to the open air and walked over to my car.

*               *               *               *               *

The morning air was cool on my arm as I hung it out the window. The debris of the city rushed by on my way out of town; decimated buildings and cracked concrete sidewalks on every block. Occasionally, I had to slow down and weave between cars parked awkwardly in the street, but before the sun was halfway to its peak I was out of town. The destruction gave way to scorched fields and tall, green trees in the distance as I sped out onto the flat, open highway.

As the scenery drifted by so, too, did the time. The first sign of life appeared with the sun far overhead. It was like watching a very skilled magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. One second I was all alone and the next came a blaring siren and flashing red/blue lights from behind.

"Oh, great...” I thought. Then a song slipped into my head and I smiled. How did it go? "They're waiting for me; they're looking for me...” I couldn't quite remember the rest so I sang it to myself a few times while a motorcycle cop trailed behind me.

"Was it Highway Police?" I asked to no one in particular. My mind drifted for a moment. Then, suddenly, I heard the squawk of a megaphone behind me.

"PULL OVER!" It demanded. The sudden noise ripped me out of contemplation about who wrote the song and I almost lost control of the car.

"Dammit! Is he still following me?" Another rhetorical question. Eventually he would run out of gas, a quick glance down at my own fuel gage and I knew I would have to stop first. There was nothing for it but to do as he said so I turned on my blinker, slowed to a stop on the shoulder and watched as he came walking up beside me.

"Afternoon officer, something I can help you with today?" I asked with as much forced sincerity as I could muster.

"Gooood afternoon!" He replied. "I'm sure happy to see you. License and registration, please." If he was faking it I couldn't tell. I've known cheerleaders that aren't this chipper.

"Yeah." I said as I began rifling through papers in my glove box. Looking for something I didn't have. "Did I do something wrong, Officer?"

"Well, when I ran your plates they came back as registered to a 1963 Chevy, not 1964. Have you been drinking today, sir?" He asked with a big, hopeful grin. I stopped looking for the paperwork for a second. There's no way he could've possibly ran my tags; there’s not enough people left in the world to keep a police station running. Hell, I've never even encountered two people with the same occupation before regardless of where I go. There wasn't even anyone at the courthouse or DMV to renew my license and no reason to keep track of registration. He was just fishing for a reason to write a ticket. The term 'Dressed to Repress' came to mind.

"No drinking for me today, but this car is a '63 Chevy." His composure began to slip a bit, but quickly returned.

"Do you have the registration to prove it?"

"No." I replied feeling a bit defeated. I could practically see the sparkle in his eyes as his face lit up.

"Well, you're not under arrest, but I'm gonna need you to go ahead and put these handcuffs on while I call for backup." He said energetically. "Do you have any weapons in your possession?" He asked as he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. This was quickly becoming a very bad situation. What would he do when backup never came? What if he handcuffs me to the car and leaves? What if he gets me in the handcuffs and tries to haul me back to jail on his motorcycle? Even if we don't crash somewhere along the lines how would I get back to my car? What if he puts me behind bars and I'm stuck there for the rest of eternity?

"No," I said quite firmly. His smile actually appeared to get wider for a moment. "I'm not putting those on." I finished and the smile left his face entirely. "Look around you!" I gestured towards the brown, open fields in all directions. The sky was suddenly dark with rain clouds and big drops started to dot the windshield. Water was already coming in the driver's side window and soaking my exposed side. I was running out of time. "The towns are no different than these fields. Everyone is gone. There's no one at the courthouse, nobody filing paperwork at the DMV, and there isn't going to be any-"

*CLICK*

I was suddenly interrupted by the cold metal closing around my left wrist as I was motioning out the window into the rain.  I looked over at my arm. The son of a bitch had one cuff on me.

"GIVE ME YOUR OTHER HAND!" He screamed into the car as I tried to jerk my arm inside, but he had a firm grip on the other end of the handcuffs. I yanked hard enough to pull myself partly out the window and he had to put one hand on the roof of the car to keep from being pulled inside. For a brief moment we were face to face and I thought I could see his desperate eyes behind his sunglasses. Then, just as I was beginning to plop back down in my seat I pushed my door open as hard as I could with my right hand, catching him right in the face with the top corner of the door post. It was enough to lay him out flat in the center of the road on the wet asphalt. I pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and quickly knocked the gear shift into reverse.

The rear tires barked, then grabbed the road and the car lurched backwards, smashing into the patrol bike and knocking it down the ditch behind me. "Good luck standing that back up in the mud." I thought to myself. I looked over just in time to see the cop getting back to his feet when I heard an alarm going off...

...and suddenly I was awake. No more cop. No more handcuffs, but my arm had fallen asleep and was currently entangled in the cord for the light that clipped onto my headboard. Also, in the commotion I had managed to squeeze the top off of a water bottle and drench half of myself and my bed. Already the dream was fading, but I knew I had to be late for work. What a start to a Monday.

Jack's Lament

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Never has the phrase been so symbolic of my life as it has over the last few months. Between weekly mandatory overtime and a suspended drivers license I haven't been having nearly the amount of fun that I'm used to. Also, I'm very aware that the material goods that I have been purchasing with my overtime money don't even come close to filling the void left by the lack of a physical connection with someone. AKA: Sex.

It seems that, in my line of work, too many people place way too much importance on money. I truly don't believe that all the good things in life are free, just that you don't pay for them directly. But, on the other hand, I don't think the secret to life is working your ass off for an employer that will fire you in the end for being a minute late one too many times. I've never been punctual and this has always been a problem.

"Well Jack, I see that production in your area is up 60% since we moved you over there and quality is well beyond any recordable data we've kept. I know you hate that project with every atom in your body, but we're going to go ahead and keep you there until we decide to fire you for attendance. Which I'm sure will happen sometime within the next six months or so. Basically, we know that you'll miss a day eventually and since I'm uncomfortable with things I can't control I'm going to go ahead and promote Jimmy-the-window-licker because he never misses a day."

Oddly, this isn't a once-in-a-lifetime situation and isn't even as fictional as it should be. I've had this conversation with my boss before. True story. Except for a few rare occasions, this is pretty much how things always turn out, but I have yet to understand the logic in it.

Maybe that's the problem I suppose. There I go trying to push logic into a situation that has everything to do with an emotional response. I do have the innate ability of shattering the illusions of power that many bosses try to hold over their employees. Basically, when they piss me off I throw a wrench into the gears and watch as they twist in the wind and grow a full head of grey hair within the course of a week.

One recent example is when I was moved over to the laser shop at work because they were getting unbelievably behind. It was just me, the guy in charge of that shop, and three lasers. Since I had a background of running these types of machines I tended to pick up things pretty quick and things ran smoothly at first, but after getting the lay of the land in the first hour of my shift the other guy decided to have me run two machines to his one. My problem with this was that his machine took an hour to produce parts and fifteen minutes to prepare for the next batch. That left him with 45 minutes to do nothing and that's exactly what he did during that time frame. Meanwhile, my two machines took longer to reload than they did to cut. I realized right then that he was definitely management material.

"This simply won't do." I thought to myself in my best Dr. Seuss monologue. "He will not help me over here. He will not help me over there. He will not help me stack these parts. He will not help me load those carts."

Unfortunately for my manager friend I happened to know a thing or two about what it takes to make the lasers run and, more importantly, how to make them not run. I adjusted a setting, turned a dial, pushed a few buttons and waited. After a few minutes of run time the machine had over-heated and ground to a halt. I innocently went back to the control panel, pushed a few buttons, turned back the dial, and readjusted a setting, but the damage had already been done. The machine was inoperable for the time being.

At that point what could I do but go tell the guy in charge? I found him lounging in the break room with a good 15 minutes left before his machine would need reloaded. He followed me back to the damaged machine and looked at the error message that was still flashing on the screen for laser number 3.

"Awwwww.. Fuck!" He cursed to himself. "It must be messed up from yesterday when I crashed it and is slowly losing focus." Then he turned to me. "I guess you can just run the other laser for the rest of the night. I need to fix this and try to keep laser 1 going. If day shift finds out I wrecked it I'll get my ass chewed."

Suddenly I felt like the balance had been met. Now the person responsible for the department being behind was doing the majority of the work and actually sweating a bit as he did it. My work there was done. At the end of the day he even gave me a good review to my direct supervisor for out-producing him.

But even with all the small victories I've been having at work I still feel like there's been something missing and it's really been wearing heavy on me. I am Jack's shrinking libido. Turns out that sore muscles and good old physical fatigue makes for a bad sexual partner. This is the point where you realize that working too hard promotes celibacy even more than World of Warcraft does. Something has to change.

Burning Man (Chapter One)

The best ideas are always written on restaurant napkins.

-The Burning Man.

*               *               *               *               *

I had a lot on my mind that night. Earlier that week a close friend of mine had passed away suddenly and I was still trying to wrap my head around it. It was a night like this that he fell asleep while driving home from work and ran into the back of some farm equipment at high speed. Only a couple months earlier I had promised to buy him breakfast after work, but we were never able to settle on a day. Now I found myself in the very truck stop I had pictured when I had first mentioned the idea to him.

I didn't bother waiting for the waitress to find me a seat since this was my usual choice for late-night food. I had just plopped down at one of the booths and slid to the wall so I could put my feet up on the bench when the waitress came around the corner. It was a girl I had never seen before and a tall, cute one at that.

"Sorry, I didn't see you come in." she said hurriedly in a sweet voice. "What can I get you to drink?" she added looking down at my shoes briefly.

For a second I wondered if maybe I needed a distraction more than I needed food, but then I thought better of it. I glanced over at her name tag for a brief moment then quickly averted my eyes when I realized she was looking right at me. I could practically hear what she was thinking. I can't believe he's just gonna stare at my breasts like that! What a pig! I swear women wear shirts with words on them just to get the upper hand on guys. Either we're left ogling while pretending to read them or are actually trying to read when we get that what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look.

"I'll have an iced tea, Alley" I replied emphasizing her name a bit.

"Okay," she paused briefly "and... do you know what you want to eat or do you need a few minutes?" She asked looking down at her notepad. She could only have been working here for a few weeks and already she was stuck in the steady drone of redundancy. I couldn't help myself, this poor girl needed a bit of excitement on this quiet morning.

"Do you have Spanish omelets?" I asked.

"Sure do!"

I could see that she had started to write down the shorthand for 'omelet' on her little book. "Are they imported?" I piped up as straight-faced as I could muster.

A slight smile crept onto her face and she stopped writing to give me a second look. Suddenly her eyes went wide with surprise. "OH MY GOD! YOU'RE ON FIRE!"

I could tell that she was about to panic or, even worse, grab a fire extinguisher. "Whoa! It's okay. Calm down. I didn't think you would notice. I'm alright, it's nothing." She still just stood there transfixed by the tall, orange flames coming off of my bare arms, shoulders, head, and even the lines of fire rising up from the legs of my blue jeans. From my perspective it appeared as if she was trying to picture me naked. Now who's staring inappropriately? I thought.

Still, it looked as though she might opt for the extinguisher any second so I reached over, grabbed a napkin and dropped it right on top of the leg that she was gaping at. The thick paper landed lightly on my knee and the flames quickly engulfed it, but it never caught fire. It didn't scorch or dissolve in the heat, it simply laid there untouched.

I picked the napkin back up and held it out to her. "It's more of an illusion than anything." I reassured her. Instead of grabbing the napkin she leaned down with her palm flat trying to feel the heat of the flames coming off my legs. After a second she tentatively grabbed my jeans and found them to be roughly room temperature.

"Does it hurt?" She asked.

"Sometimes."

"Well..." she hesitated, "have you seen a doctor or something?"

I let out a long sigh. "I did once a long time ago." I tell her. "The doctor gave me some skin cream for the burning and told me to come back if it gets any worse."

"Well that is just the darnedest thing." She said shaking her head. "So, you wanted the omelet?"

"No." I reply with a light laugh. "How about the French toast and fried eggs?"

"Sure thing, hun. I'll get that right in for you!"

It seemed that after her initial shock wore off everything had gone back to normal. Other than a couple quick glances as she brought my food over or refilled my glass the flames were all but forgotten. It's crazy how fast something so odd can be rationalized and fades from memory. That's pretty much how it always went. Hell, most people don't even pay enough attention to notice the fire in the first place.

The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful despite the early excitement. I ate my breakfast, worked on a crossword puzzle, paid the bill and left. Even on the ride home there was no one around. The streets were empty on this sleepy Sunday evening. I drove my car up the alley of my block, into the newly formed ruts in my back yard and parked next to a big tree. The soft soil and dew-covered grass didn't stand a chance against my heavy 1963 Chevy Impala. It was a luxury vehicle from the muscle-car era. Meaning, it weighed as much as a cement truck, but had the option of coming with a motor big enough to pick both front tires up off the ground at a green light. It also happened to have a trunk lid long enough and solid enough to lie down on. Good for star gazing or, in this case, for talking to a tree.

I hauled myself up on the driver’s side, leaned back against the rear glass, and looked up at the tall oak. I counted the thick branches up the right side of the trunk as best I could in the dark to where I knew that a dull gleam from a steel padlock would shine through to reveal a grave marker. With each branch I recalled my climb up to the thick knot of wood about twenty feet off of the ground.

It was all the higher I could climb with a black book bag full of tools strapped to my back. When I had finally settled on a suitable location my hands were raw and my muscles shaking. Tree climbing was a past time I thoroughly enjoyed as a kid, but hadn't done it since before high school and it certainly showed. Even so, in front of me was a knot where someone had once cut this branch's life short. It would be the perfect spot for what I needed. I pulled out a cordless drill and the first of several thick drill bits of various sizes. It didn't take long for them to start gumming up since this was, in fact, still a living tree. When I felt that I had finally made a deep enough hole and had ran out of fresh bits I put the drill back in the bag and pulled out a small, white biodegradable box with ashes inside. The nick-name of the tree didn't come from its type, but from the name that used to belong to the ashes that I poured into the hole seven branches from the bottom. He had been my oldest and closest friend, but was never able to find his place in life. His name was Ceder and I had hoped that here he would finally find peace. After filling the rest of the hole in with wood glue I climbed down.

"I wish you were still here." I began, still staring up into the glint of metal between the branches. "I could really use someone trustworthy to get advice from right about now. No one else really gets me the way you did." I stopped for a moment; letting those words sink in before moving on to the next topic. "Shotgun died this week. He was even younger than you and now he's gone too. Oh, and there was a tall, cute girl at breakfast I think you would've liked. She noticed my flames even. I still don't know why some people see it and some don't, but I bet you would've figured it out by now."

After that there was a long pause and finally I realized that I had summed up everything that had been on my mind all week into just a few short sentences.

"I really wish you were still here." I repeated, knowing instantly that that had been the most important part of our little one-sided conversation. And, with that there was nothing more to say. So I slid off the side of my car and went inside to go to bed. That's when the dreams came.

Mandatory Overtime In A Strange World

Hour 1: I'm still pretty furious at having to be here on my day off. The heat and humidity are incredible and there's barely any breeze inside. I know that eventually my anger will turn to exhaustion. That's when they'll win. I can't let that happen.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 2: Just outside the wind rages past. The blinding light and endless supply of cotton blowing by reveals the desolation of the world beyond.

(best viewed in full screen)

I have but one companion, but I fear that he may have been in this place too long for he doesn't seem surprised by the intense heat, surveillance cameras, or hard physical labor which has been thrust upon us.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 3: Finally, we are able to keep up with the machines and can take a short break before beginning again, but someone must've taken taken notice! They forced us to stop and wait until we were behind again. "Take a little break." sneered the bell. I can almost picture it's evil grin.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 4: My companion wonders if I know of a place to go horseback riding in Kansas. Silently I fear that the heat may be affecting his head. "I'll look it up." I assure him. Cling to whatever hope you can, my friend. Maybe one day you'll be free to ride horses.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 5: Starvation has become a problem here. The only source of food is from an evil machine on the other side of the plant. It is full of all sorts of sugary goodies, but few offer any real sustenance. Even so, if I don't eat something soon I may perish. 

I put in my last dollar bill and pressed the appropriate buttons eagerly. The machine clicked and whirred as the food approached  the drop zone. Then... nothing.

One corner of the plastic wrapping was caught under the spiraling finger of the machine. Through the glass I could tell that it was barely holding on. I tried to tip the machine, to rock it, but it was bolted to the wall in numerous places. Again, I sensed that evil grin. It was the same as the buzzer telling me to stop so the machines could back up the work load.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 6: The blinding sun finally gave way to a full, ominous moon and tensions run high. In this run-down work place even the machines themselves thwart any feelings of real progress. At one point half of the mechanics of machine two broke down and now we have to manually swap out the material. Machine three is also starting to break down this way, but for now only needs a bit of a boost every cycle. Soon I fear that the overseers will bring out chisels and hammers so we can cut the metal by hand.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 7: The wind outside has stopped completely and out there in the dark the air begins to cool, but inside the great machines relentlessly produce searing hot pieces of metal to be unloaded and palletized by hand.

The quiet serenity outside feels like the calm before the storm. I know what comes next. Soon plagues of insects will swarm the building looking for food.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 8: I bet you thought this would be the end, didn't you? Unfortunately things are not always the way you perceive them. Why work a measly 8 hours on your day off when you could just as easily work 10? Bug density, that's why. It has increased in both quantity and mass. Here comes another swarm. I've gotta go!

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 9: It is finally starting to feel cooler. Even up next to the gigantic lasers it almost seems... comfortable. Is there really a break in my luck or is my mind finally starting to go?

Meanwhile, my companion is over on his side yelling obscenities. I handed him a list of phone numbers to call for horseback riding earlier, but even that glimmer of hope must not be enough. I fear that he may have finally lost control.

*          *          *          *          *

Hour 10: I was a fool to find hope in the drop of temperature. Where before the bugs were a mere nuisance, now they have become a health risk. They come in droves looking for the heat of man and machine alike. This is my last hour one way or another. 2AM is just around the corner.

*          *          *          *          *

Freedom: Finally made it out and back into the air conditioned world. Quite honestly though, I'm really not sure if my companion will ever recover. Either way, it's time for a mini, geeky, celebration for surviving. Here's to all those other people who escaped from relentless machines: