Routine Tripp

Tick, tock, goes the clock. It’s 4:43 AM. Under the influence you feel like you could stare in the same spot forever. The clock seems, oh so attractive today. So pretty, so modern, optimistic does it look sitting dead on the nightstand. Any other day it would’ve only been a second before my eyes focused on something else for amusement; but today I think I’ll stare at the clock. Can you hear it? Can you hear it ticking? The second you concentrate enough to hear the gentle, “tick-tick-tick,” it’ll never go away. White.

Given the right situation, white can be blacker than black. Blood shows up easier on white. Buzzing, sitting on a bathroom floor, staring at fish decorations on the wall; what productive fun. Project due in English tomorrow- I mean today. Forget it. At this moment the universe revolves around me, nothing else. There’s something about a bathroom if you’re not in there to prepare for the day or other reasons that’s so hospitalishly calm, peaceful. Hospitals, airports, all vast, white architectures bring that specific sense of childhood adventure in me. This is so much better than the clock.

It’s 5:34 AM now, and in about thirty minutes I’ll have to get up. What a chore. Followed by many more motions that any other day would come without thinking, but today every ounce of energy I would have had is down the drain. PE is first period, and I still haven’t finished that project… Blagh.

Matt’s sitting in the same spot, in the same spot. Anywhere the bleachers go, he follows. This kid owes me a dollar. True, it’s only a dollar; true, that was a week or two ago. Anybody could scrape up a dollar. It’s not the money now, but the principle. You borrow something from somebody, say you’ll have it tomorrow, and you should have it tomorrow. Forget one day, apologize, and you bring it the next day. Forget again, your sincerest apologies, but by then you should’ve damn well had the money you borrowed. Everybody forgets, but weeks gone by? That’s pathetic. Too many people pull too much shit to steal from people without even stealing it, and though it’s not stealing, the courtesy somebody has to lend you something of their own, should at least be rewarded with balance. Anybody could scrape up a dollar.

Otherwise, he’s cool, and my complaining buddy. Can’t go a day without a conversation over how stupid or pointless we think the drills and activities are, or how much a jerk we think the teacher is even though he's just preforming the duties listed in his job description. We know this, but we'd rather ignore the fact and complain. Still buzzn’, but I can act 100% without close inspection. But you couldn’t call me sober. “What’re you laughin’ at?” he asks with the same blank face he always wears. As we circle the gymnasium, I know he knows I know he knows.

Doing things you hate, while lifted, and still having the awareness to complain about it; but doing things you enjoy, and ending up wandering off into space, is so odd. Buddha gave me a visit one time while I was playing my favorite game: Counter Strike. When I came to reality, I had thirty kills and five deaths, which is pretty freaking unbelievable for me. It’s the same with schoolwork though. Go a whole trimester not really sure what your grades are, confident to find a few C’s and D’s on your report card, and they’re all A’s and B’s. As soon as you hear the news, happiness strikes hard, but in my opinion, the bathroom’s better.

I’m not sure what you’d call it; that magical, overwhelming euphoria that grips you when the high starts winding down. I feel so fragile minded, like a little window of opportunity opens up where anything can happen. Maybe this is what hitting bottom feels like.

“Hello- Yeah, my day was fine- Nope, nothing new going on at school, how was your day? Good… Well, I’ll be upstairs, love you see ya.” The day is over, the night is young, my bag is full, but not for long.