The more things change

I was digging through some boxes and found a written page from around ’99.  I was living at my folks house, working at 54th Street for the third time, and awaiting a move to Californina.  Here is what I found:

As I sit on my back porch pondering the great questions of the universe, ie maybe I should have gone piss before smoking this cigarette, in the blazing noon day sun.  Beads of sweat form on my brow as I plot the monotony of my day off.  Should I eat first, then play pinball before coming home for a nap?  Maybe I should wait until some sort of food sounds remotely interesting and play pinball in the interim.  Maybe I should go back to bed until some sort of sense of urgency returns.  Come to think of it why did I get up in the first place?  If it were not for cigarettes and urination I probably would be having these thoughts in the 12×20 sanctuary of my youth, wghich now houses unused plywood, a broken pinball machine, and a treadmill (which provided only the exercise necessary to assemble, and eventually transport to it’s final resting place.)  Scattered amongst, between, under, and on top of this furntiure is the sparse remains of a life I once knew.  A two bedroom apartment worth of memoriesnow lies in coffins marked kitchen and books.  I share the small bed with yet more boxes, magazines, bags of stale chips, and an alarm clock which sounds 6 days a week to remind me of my third obligation.  At least 12 hours a day are spent sweating on my feet and marching towards death in a never ending cycle of drink orders, food orders, and disappointing tips.  Alas this is not my fate today, even god rested on teh seventh day.  However I doubt he spent it debating the merits of chinesse of mexican food for lunch.