Today I gave the morning the freedom I usually blockade with chores and errands and time restraints. I lounged in my sleep wear for a bit as I waited for motivation to swell within me; when it never came I contented myself with a leisurely cup of black coffee and a hour or Hesse's Stepenwolf, that, though enjoyed, only received half of my attention due to the occupation aimless thoughts held over my mind. Every twenty minutes or so I found myself pondering last night's dream, tossing the disconnected memories here and there as if I were mulling about in a mysterious pond that failed to spark my interest or concern. I remember leaving for the airport after visiting the house I currently live in, and my father trying to package a bicycle I wished to take with me. I often dream of the airport and the rush of catching a plane, and more than once I've missed it and found myself stranded in the most bizarre lounges and coffee shops, with no task to distract me but the observation of the random, unearthly shapes and colors of my surroundings.

I didn't wish insult the book with a distracted mind, so I set it down on the table next to the chair I was sitting in. I smiled faintly at the sight of it; the cup that had once contained my coffee was now empty and sported dry streaks of the drink that had spilled over the cup during its use, and had tainted the clean facade of the white mug as it ran carelessly down and settled in the saucer beneath. A crumpled granola bar wrapper sat next to it, opposite the corner that had been ripped off and placed on the saucer, and the open, face down book lay close by. The objects completely filled the small end table with that comfortable chaos that so often in life we try to eradicate, yet in the description of our lives we preposterously try to replicate. I was amused to think of the steppenwolf's remarks on bourgeois cleanliness, the admitted admiration yet disdain he felt for the common person's obsession with the small things. My amusement rekindled when I found a basket beneath my bathroom sink that Cindy had placed there to further encourage organization, though she seldom used that particular bathroom, and though the bottles of lotion and scent and product were hidden in such obscure, dusty bowels of the house that only by accident or error could a visitor every discover the objects and the organization their numbers lacked. I obliged her and set my things neatly in a basket and cleaned the rest of the cabinet, dutifully erasing signs of life and movement and disorder that might give evidence that people live in the house. Why is it, I wonder, that our sterile ideals lay so opposite any sort of reality? We are human beings, with interests and occupations, and the spaces that house us should only logically reflect our movements. The virtue of picking up dirty dishes is axiomatic, as is the disposal of trash and wrappers and the such. The determination of some to leave no trace behind, however, leaves me utterly confounded.

The morning has been pleasant but now must unfortunately yield to the necessary distraction of responsibility. I have an interview at 2:30 at mimi's that I hope will bring an end in sight to my employment at Lonestar Steakhouse and Saloon. I accepted a job at Lonestar because they offered to let me serve, and though the experience is valuable it is miserable. Mimi's holds the potential for more money and a better atmosphere, so I am excited and hopeful. I must return to my Texan purgatory at 5:00, however, when my shift begins. Until then I'll be quite busy filling my afternoon with the little things, because I, like every other human being around me, have an obsession with the inane.