Routine 2

Have already done something to piss off the butcher at the local grocery store. This is not my side of town, suburbia, where all the attractive single women live. My homebase is filled with prostitutes, drug addicts, and gambling junkies; an active network of Vegas subculture living by their last threads, so my demeanor may not fit in too well with this crowd of pilate moms and recently married twenty something female professionals walking around in tight attractive clothing. The store looks like it just opened last week, the floors are clean, the produce section well kept, as if preparing to film the goods sometime in the next couple of hours. The butcher either has a substantial hangover or a lingering hatred toward my uncaring regard in selecting some lobster tails, large shrimp, and rib eye steak. What this butcher does not realize, revolves around the fact that I do not eat very much anymore, especially anything with taste, nothing but grapefruits, tofu, boiled chicken, and broiled fish. My kitchen smells like hell, but I have lost a lot of weight in the process, outside of going out to lunch ocassionally with my mother, cooked meals are a rarity.

After retriving the goods and some alcohol a friend and I head back to his house for a barbeque, not something I usually partake in but this house is a real chill spot, akin to living back in San Diego, regardless of how wasted I get the couch is always available, the weed is good, the food, the drinks, and the company. A couple of friends cruise over, time to get the bloody mary's going, real spicy mix, westishire sauce, hot sauce, and a bit of lime, plenty of ice, vodka, shake it up a bit in a cup, then enjoy, blaze up some pot, then sit outside and check out, forget about work, bills, time, and any other downers circling the horizon of my life. This entire experience is quite a luxury, one appreciated with the upmost of value in keeping sanity onboard in the brain, even when eating mushrooms. Soon enough I wake up and its 7am, everyone is asleep, nothing left to do but clean up the empty bag of Doritos polished off last night, drink down a warm beer, then fall back asleep to the undersea video loop on the television as satellite radio jam band music plays on the stereo in the background. Reclining leather sofas make great sleeping quarters and my spot is always well thought ahead, hit that couch like a predestined location, world cup finale is on in a few hours and the phone is already blowing up with status reports, texts, and a few veteran fans already wasted at 7am awaiting my arrival which was supposed to be some hours ago. Time for some water after the warm beer, maybe something resembling food, beside the chips, the ice cream, and alcohol from last night, just completely blow my eating habits, glad to revisit my former indulgent nature once and a while, but have hit the gym twice as hard now, then starve the following week, what a chore, something to do though, keeps me motivated. Not really feeling the drive back down toward the strip for the soccer match, laying in this recliner with the pregame show on in high definition is mighty tempting to keep me here which would have been the wiser and more affordable selection, but instead I head down to the Crown to throw away another 60 dollars on beer with the light of a new day anticipating my arrival.