Dinner For One

I made dinner tonight for just myself. I went to the store and shopped with my ipod. I hate the shopping experience. Children and shopping carts. People trying to maneuver in an environment while preoccupied by all the pretty sights. Staring at signs and looking for soap in the bread aisle. Running into each other on purpose. Looking for some contact. It's so much easier to dodge and choose the aisle with no one. I bought all my ingredients. My hand held cart became rather heavy as I failed to anticipate that I needed oil and balsamic along with other necessary household items. My pocketbook did the same. I forgot that my taste is expensive. When I got home, I realized that I would be doing a night alone with pasta. A good sauce takes a long time and it's a rather lonely experience. A good bottle of wine did help. White wine...blasphemy. Damn you, Brian! Penne Arrabbita. Oil and balsamic brought be back to a better time though. For some reason, cooking reminds me of my worth. It reminds of my past experiences and how warm life can be. I remember friends and discussions and a time of normality with people who are more intelligent and civilized than anyone I spend time with at the present time. There is no way I convey everything about what I miss in this journal. How these people are amazing, normal, completely abnormal, geniuses, and just plain amazing. They fuel everything I need on with my quest for the abnormal and yet support me with everything within their power. They are completely fucked up and I can trust them and rely on them. I think everything I write is about people. How I am so far from where I want to be. I meet one person per year I can even fucking hang with. Fuck you sentence ending with a preposition! There's a bunch. I walk by my neighbors, and quite frankly, they should just shoot themselves. It should be illegal to raise children in an apartment complex. Is this fucking normal! And then, you decide to have two more? I guess this is why my neighbor works nights. I'm sure he sees his children at their best and the rest of time he just doesn't have to deal with it. As he's a heavy sleeper with the cousin pounding at the door at 3am because there is no reason to make an extra key. I pass the elderly apartments with the doors open because they just wish they had something to stimulate them besides the television. Like the regular at the supermarket up the street who everyone knows by name. As he walks the aisles and stops the shoppers to tell them jokes. "You must have been such a player", the checker says. His jovial way brings about a discomfort as one can't just walk away because he's just lonely, and who knows, maybe that could be me one day. And I wonder just how much time he spends there. Is this man in every market? What happened to bring him to this? Was this a stroke or heart attack that made him get out again? Without anything to focus on so he just chose a place with a regular cycle of people that would laugh and smile at him? Fuck, that's sad. This is going to turn into a novel. I'm going for more alcohol for sure. (Laughs).