Keeping the Werewolves Out

I don't know if this post attempt is going to work from here. We'll see...

Instead of just hanging out alone at the house as pathetically as I did all day I came out for the sake of getting out. I'm at Panera Bread with a pecan twist resting comfortably in my gut and a chocolate pastry on its way to rejoining its old plate buddy. A cup of decaf's keeping me warm along with my winter coat that's still zipped, and I imagine that the fireplace about six feet away is helping too. It's COLD here in Pennsylvania.

A college girl with "MANDA" across the back of her sweat pants makes me yearn for that time in my own life, 30 years ago, when I'd have made some substantially different choices if I could have known then things that I know now. But Thomas Wolfe was right. You can't go home again. The best you can do some Saturday nights is to sit with a bunch of strangers all around you in a warm place that, if it were darker and served stout, warm ale, might have been one of those English inns of yore where the heavy oaken door was the only thing keeping the werewolves out on the moor.

I have to pee. Do I carry this iPod in with me? I don't want to pocket it and risk losing all that I've typed with my nose picking finger so far. And I need more coffee. Am I supposed to take the mug in with me too?

I'm back. I refilled before I hit the head and left the full cup on the table to keep my space. I slipped the iPod into my loose jacket pocket only long enough to use the urinal and wash my hands.

The place was hopping when I got here but it's emptying out. The conversations aren't really worth trying to latch onto. A woman a while ago was telling her friend firmly, "Stop being the mother!" She repeated to punctuate it. I hear myself often saying pretty much the opposite to somebody I love. Maybe I should just be more grateful that I got to be a daddy and never had to be a mother. Hopefully I'll never have to be the focus on some therapist's couch. Oh! Wait! I've already been that. Dear, God! Where my thoughts go when I type with one finger! This sure ain't the piece of writing that might have come out of me if I were back in my usual chair.

It's nearly an hour since I got here. I didn't write much because of the slow input pace but I like the different style of prose that came out of my fingertip. It's a stream of something, though not necessarily consciousness. I'm sending this and hoping it'll hit the blog as intended; if not I'll fix it at the PC later.

That's it. I'm out of here. Now I gotta fart and if I dare do it on this faux leather I fear I'll bounce like a jackhammer.

[I did have to fix the post when I got back to the house. All the text south of the picture was missing from the original post. Good thing I had the presence of mind to e-mail the whole post to myself. In addition, I can't seem to be able to justify the type now. Maybe if I try to edit the HTML... Yeah! That did it!]

[Oh! As for the picture. I took it with my phone, e-mailed it to the iPod, and then inserted it into the post. Any kludge in a storm, right?]