It Seemed Like A Good Idea at the Time: Burger King
I ate lunch at Burger King yesterday. A medium Whopper Value Meal. I'd neglected to bring my own lunch to work, and then I wound up dropping a co-worker off at the airport around noonish. There's not a lot of places to eat around there--I actually went of out my way to go to the Burger King.
My poor body. I've been polluting it lately. We have this ice cream treat at home (with a shortbread crust and chocolate sauce) that I've had for breakfast the past few days. Ice cream for breakfast? I used to do that more often, actually. But two days in a row is kind of pathetic.
Perhaps that's why I've been feeling sluggish in the evenings. I get home and don't feel motivated to run, cook, write, clean, sew, or do anything productive. I just melt into our sagging old easy chair and watch DVDs.
I was able to really myself the other evening before dusk. I took a walk (running has seemed boring lately) up Albany Hill, which is always a good place to go. I do run up Albany Hill sometimes, but you always notice more when you walk. It's such an odd hill, how it pops up in the middle of flatness. This necklace of condos rings the hill, but at the top there's nothing but shaggy eucalyptus trees and poson oak. There's also a jerryrigged swing that some crafty kids contructed. It swoops out crookedly over the hillside on chains and fraying ropes. I'm ususally scared of it, that I'll fly off into the poison oak-laced steepness of the hillside. Mostly I walk up the hill and walk right down again and pay attention to the view.
But that day I didn't. I heard a singsong hiphop voice from the woods on top of the hill. It scared me but drew me in. You don't spot many other people on Albany Hill. There's a road to the top and all along the sides you find used condomns, empty bottles, cigarette butts. I think displaced kids go there to do naughty things--I sure would have, even if technically I didn't do much naughty stuff. When I walked by parked cars on the road up Albany Hill, I keep to myself and let the sex-having, pot-smoking kids inside have some privacy.
Albany Hill can be a dark and lonely place. It's a stupid place for a girl to go alone at dusk, but still this voice drew me into the trees down the weedy path. This slender dredlocked guy was singing; he stopped when he apologized and in a somewhat fey voice accented with Europen intonations pardoned himself. I told him to keep going. I'd practice singing up there, too, if I sang. But I don't anymore, not even to myself. Instead I went over to the shady swing and pumpded my legs in the dimming air and swung heavy like a pendulum over that hill as it melted into the night.
My poor body. I've been polluting it lately. We have this ice cream treat at home (with a shortbread crust and chocolate sauce) that I've had for breakfast the past few days. Ice cream for breakfast? I used to do that more often, actually. But two days in a row is kind of pathetic.
Perhaps that's why I've been feeling sluggish in the evenings. I get home and don't feel motivated to run, cook, write, clean, sew, or do anything productive. I just melt into our sagging old easy chair and watch DVDs.
I was able to really myself the other evening before dusk. I took a walk (running has seemed boring lately) up Albany Hill, which is always a good place to go. I do run up Albany Hill sometimes, but you always notice more when you walk. It's such an odd hill, how it pops up in the middle of flatness. This necklace of condos rings the hill, but at the top there's nothing but shaggy eucalyptus trees and poson oak. There's also a jerryrigged swing that some crafty kids contructed. It swoops out crookedly over the hillside on chains and fraying ropes. I'm ususally scared of it, that I'll fly off into the poison oak-laced steepness of the hillside. Mostly I walk up the hill and walk right down again and pay attention to the view.
But that day I didn't. I heard a singsong hiphop voice from the woods on top of the hill. It scared me but drew me in. You don't spot many other people on Albany Hill. There's a road to the top and all along the sides you find used condomns, empty bottles, cigarette butts. I think displaced kids go there to do naughty things--I sure would have, even if technically I didn't do much naughty stuff. When I walked by parked cars on the road up Albany Hill, I keep to myself and let the sex-having, pot-smoking kids inside have some privacy.
Albany Hill can be a dark and lonely place. It's a stupid place for a girl to go alone at dusk, but still this voice drew me into the trees down the weedy path. This slender dredlocked guy was singing; he stopped when he apologized and in a somewhat fey voice accented with Europen intonations pardoned himself. I told him to keep going. I'd practice singing up there, too, if I sang. But I don't anymore, not even to myself. Instead I went over to the shady swing and pumpded my legs in the dimming air and swung heavy like a pendulum over that hill as it melted into the night.
posted by Lefty at 9:39 AM
1 Comments:
I once found a soggy issue of Hawk porn magazine on the side of the road leading to Albany Hill. Why is it that people always seem to find porno magazines discarded along roadsides, or in strange open fields? What's going on there?
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