Although I wake, my eyes do not open. I don’t tell them not to open, they’re just not feeling it yet; most mornings are like this. I can hear my family bustling around downstairs, feel the sunlight bursting through the open window I forgot to curtain last night, taste the fermented puffs of hot morning breath rising from my mouth to my nostrils. I want to get up, hell I need to get up, but my body just isn’t feeling it. My limbs are heavy and immobile, my torso is a slab of concrete and my hair isn’t bound in a ponytail, meaning it’s everywhere, and I’ll have to pull a few strands of it out of my mouth, and probably one or two out of my eyes, when I find them.
I don’t know that you’ve ever pulled a hair out of your eye, but let me tell you: it is the most unsettling feeling a human is capable of experiencing, especially if it’s a long hair you’re extracting. You see the tip sticking out and think, ‘Oh, it’s just an eyelash, lemme grab that quick.’ Then you grab it and, as you pull it free, you feel the remaining eight inches of the shit squirm its way out of the miniscule gap between your eye and your bottom eyelid that you didn’t even know existed, and then you take a shower because you feel thirty-one different flavors of violated by this strand of simple proteins, one that grew from your own head, no less.
Maybe this is why my eyes don’t want to open – although I can’t feel the spindly bastards yet, I know they’re there waiting for me, patiently, just dying to prematurely take the good out of my morning. Or maybe my bed is just toasty and I’m subconsciously recognizing that I’m almost half of the way through my twenties and the part of my life in which I can wake up on a Wednesday and stay in bed as long as I want to is probably coming to an end, and I need to enjoy this while I still can.
Regardless, here I lay, under the covers and outside of time, blanketed in warmth and holding down the snooze button on the rest of life not because I want to, not because I need to, but because I can.
I’m up and Adom. Normally my first thing in the morning routine includes opening all of my windows, reading a chapter or two of a book, meditating for twenty minutes and having a smoothie before I start working, but not on this day. My mind is flayed today because I haven’t started the re-write of this book yet. I just want the project to be done and over with already and, for better or for worse, there’s only one way to make that happen: I need to start working on it right this second; after all, stranger things than me skipping breakfast have gone down in this town before.
Looking out my one open window instead of at my computer screen, I notice today’s sky is that kind of overcast in which one can see chunky folds in the water vapor, yet the sun shines through anyway. That’s a good way to be, isn’t it? You don’t look like much – in fact, you look about as mediocre and unassuming as you possibly can – yet your light shines on through anyway.
That’s right hypothetical reader, I’m trying to tell you something with these obscure tribulations that, for all you know, I just made up off the top of my head. This book will go one of two ways: either it will be a hassle that you don’t really understand and are kind of afraid of until you read it, or it will be that muddy rock you find in the woods that turns out to be a gemstone after you wash it off. Maybe those two ways lead to the same place, who knows? Maybe I’ll get to the point eventually, maybe I won’t. Maybe a meteor will strike and the world will go kaput. Maybe I’ll smoke some marijuana and eat pizza all day instead of doing this, hah!
Just kidding, I don’t do drugs and I’m not going to hold my breath for any meteors. In an effort to not prematurely repeat myself, I’m an author with the initials of HOW and a handful of months ago, I wrote and published two books: one about running, and this one, Roadtrip. I then unpublished them both and wallowed in self-loathing & psychosis until one day I suddenly found myself cured of Lyme disease. The sudden lack of corkscrew bacteria eating my brain into insanity lead me to establish a publishing company (shout to The Hillside Commons), which motivated me to re-write and re-publish the running book. And now I’m re-writing this book so I can re-publish it too, because cycles.
But, see, the running book? I re-wrote that for a reason. The first edition was shit and reeked of self-victimization; so, I made it less shitty and called it |The Unvictimized Edition|. But this book… I don’t think the first edition was that bad, there’s not really an outright reason to do a rewrite. Plus, I have this other tiny little project I’ve been working on for three years that’s dying to get released, so I’m asking myself the following in the form of the text you’re currently reading: “WHY AM I WASTING MY TIME REDOING THE ROADTRIP BOOK?!”
Because, Hunter who wrote the last paragraph, your existence on this planet is not happening solely for your own benefit. This book is both dedicated to and about your friends, and yet they never got to read it, just like grandMother didn’t get to read it because when you originally published the book you were Lyme-shit crazy and you didn’t tell anybody outside of your house, nor did you make any semblance of an announcement about it whatsoever.
sO gUeSs WhAt?
Today, August 21st, 2019, you’re going to drive to grandMother’s house and read the original Roadtrip to her. Then, you’re going to interweave the story of you reading Roadtrip to G-Mah with the story of the original Roadtrip book and republish it, calling it The ¡Gramango! Edition, because grandMother has a cat named Mango. And Mango is fantastic.
Well hi there, it’s about two hours later now and I’m at grandMother’s house. Sorry for abruptly cutting out there, the whole writing to myself thing was getting unsettling and I needed to get away from it. Mango is currently perusing my ankles, the TV is off and we’re ready to read. I don’t know what to say now, so… here we go. The ¡Gramango! Edition.
“Hahahahah!” grandMother laughs, grabbing for her coffee. She knows this will be a long visit. “Mango was walking through my ankles before and I looked down and it was just orange, her fur was everywhere, all over my pants. Ahhhhh, shit!”
As grandMother reminisces fondly, I look out the window and see my Uncle Bill walking down the street towards the lower driveway. What a nice surprise, I didn’t know he was visiting grandMother today, too.
I revert my attention to grandMother and attempt to begin, but I find myself at a lack of words. I would say the cat’s got my tongue, but I don’t think that’s exactly possible; Mango seems to be hovering, literally floating in the air above the table, her legs dangling in such a fashion so her paws are lightly brushing against the top of my laptop’s screen. The plot thickens… okay I should really start this.