(no subject)

Things I want to get pretty soon:

- Cupboard doors for sme of the parts of my bookshelves, or a small cabinet that I can put in between them
- Big pin-up board
- Wall shelving units
- A really long scarf
- MOAR BOOKS
- Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
- The Studio Ghibli Collection
- The Chronicles of Narnia (All the books, or the collection book thingy, but not stupid movie covers)
- His Dark Materials Trilogy (Again, not the movie covers, lame.)
- A polar bear.

BEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR


(Some kind of writing. Unedited, hasn't even been re-read, and I have no idea where it came from. Well, I do. It came from that first sentence.)

And I pick up my hat, go out the door and I'm gone. Gone, without so much as a quick glance around the room to check everything is in its place, and that I haven't forgotten anything. Down the stairs, two, three at a time. Slowing in the lobby, a business-like nod to the doorman and I'm out.
It's a pity I can't take my car. A crying shame, but I've got to keep moving, changing like an octopus swimming over different coloured corals. Opulently invisible.
Considering it's a 1961 Jag E-type in mint condition, though, it'll be a fair trade for whatever car I take from storage. Nobody uses their cars in this damn city, they just buy them and keep them all pretty in locked up garages, out of the sun and the rain, waiting.
For what? Who knows. I don't think people even remember what you're supposed to use cars for any more. They're collector's items, an odd curiosity that everyone who's anyone wants to have, but nobody really understands. Oh, they drive them, but they don't drive them, if you know what I mean.
I spot some shitty, silver, American hatchback from the mid 90s sitting much unloved in a corner. It'll do. I duct tape the key to my car to the floor of the parking spot, and chalk in an arrow towards my jag. Nah, nobody will report this for a theft, if they know what's good for them. Not that the Jag is in my name anyway, of course. Not that anyone will be down here any time soon.
So, what am I running from? I'm not even sure any more. I suppose it's habit-forming. I've always done it, well, for my whole adult life anyway. I'm not really any different from anyone else, except I follow my impulses and I move. I like to think I'm in touch with my instincts but I know I'm just kidding myself.
Deep down I know I'm no better than the barmaid who takes the lewd comments and the drinks spilt on her for the money, no better than that guy who paints houses for a living even though what he'd really like to be doing is something meaningful, and he can't even convince himself that that's the job he's got.  But the moving, it helps me to forget sometimes.
I suppose they are after me, though, there's a string of petty crimes and identity fraud cases that have got to be tacked on to me by now. Plus they don't like weird types. Weird is a concern, it's unpredictable. Everyone likes a vicious dog that just comes right out and bites you over a cat or whatever that won't give you any warning before it slices you. Well, I would. Not that I can remember the last time I saw a real dog, or a real cat, for that matter.
Maybe I'll go to the country this time, become a recluse. Go cow tipping. Scare the neighbourhood kids, that sort of thing.
It's a pity. I'll miss the Jag. Maybe I should have left it for the woman. She'll get by. I explained this might happen, right before anything started.
Oh well. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and all that.
So I'm off.