Killing Time

I feel good. The hair's growing out, and I'm shedding unwanted pounds. My vocabulary is more diverse and correct when I use it in public, not just on these posts. For the first time in years, I've felt proud about my job. I'm a public servant. The other day, a kid offered me a stick of Juicy Fruit. It could have been that I had post-schoolday teacher breath, but I'd like to think that he was offering it as a peace pipe. I'm beginning to win them over. My girlfriend is happy with me. The 'rents are happy with me. Perhaps one thing I'm neglecting is my exercise, but I'm not pounding junk food or couch potatoing up the joint. I don't get to see some friends as much as I'd like to, but that's life sometimes. My drum could use some beating on, maybe. My TV's getting dusty, thank God. I've been sneezing to beat the band, but I was given a gang of hankerchiefs just in time. I now rock the fabric tissues just like my old man. People say I'm jumpy, and that's a fact. That will never go away. I gots the nerves, that's all. I'm like a live wire fritzing on the street, waiting for an innocent bystander. I keep those around me guessing. I ask tough questions and stew in awkwardness. I'm a pot roast of awkwardness. I'm the mash potatoes of uncomfortable silences. I'll joke with you in the line at Trader Joe's, but secretly, if I think you're missing a couple screws, I'll make that suspicion evident by giving you the corner of my eye. I dominate the eye corner. It's my laser beam. You need a shield for it, or else you get zapped. ZEER!