I cook breakfast. I have a very strict process. I put some butter in the pan, turn on the gas, and some butter on some bread inside the toaster. I slice a tomato into 4 pieces. I have a song in my head. I can't figure out what it is. I don't even know if I have it. I can never concentrate on just cooking. I check my Japanese homework. The pan is ready. I crack the egg on the side. The yolk goes running, Damn! Oh well, I put the tomatoes in. "SSSSSSSZZZZZZ" I open up the toaster and spread the butter on the toast. Once the toast is done, I cut it into four pieces, for dunking into the yolks, but today my yolk is all fucked, but I do it anyway, I don't know. So I take the mishap of an egg and put it on the plate, and then the tomatoes. It was all still pretty good. I love breakfast, it is the king of meals. No matter alone, hungover, not hungry, starving, with friends, it always seems to give some kind of gratification. One of my favorite memories, is living at the compound. I remember Gabe eating breakfast like 2 or 3 times a day. I finally realize that song that was in my head, was the strokes. Then my roommate sean comes in, his real name is ehtesham. I ask him if anything happend at work. My company right now is having major problems. The titled instructors haven't gotten paid yet. I've been a little stressed lately because I might not get paid next month or the month after. And the management of the company has kept everyone in the dark. I have a new job, but not until November, which means I won't get paid until December.
And I just spent my savings to rent an apartment. But this is life. Its all part of
the experience. What are you made of? Is money all that important?
So I take a shower. While I was in there I was having visions of not getting paid. I was visualizing myself going to the head office and trying to get paid. But they didn't give a damn because I chose to work for a different company. "Traitor!"
Then I got dressed. I gathered my things. I put on my shoes with a shoe horn. "fag", and went out the door. When I got outside my building a man wearing black pants, gucci belt and a white shirt was passing by. I instantly felt the heat. Its September and its still pretty hot. I walked to the station and noticed the train was about to arrive. I hustled up the stairs to the platform. The train came, I got on, and 2 stops later got off and transfered to another train. While I was on the train, I sent an email to Rob, about all the people I saw on the train. It was the usual crowd of people glued to their cellphone screens and looking well dressed. About 8 stops later I got off at Daikanyama.
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2 comments:
Life is what you make it to be.
Life is only as beautiful as you allow it to be.
... but man does it suck not knowing if you (we) are getting paid!!
Anyways, Gabe's profound love for breakfast has influenced my mental balance to the effect that anytime i even hear the word 'breakfast' a little image of Gabe(perhaps in a choppily animated antique cookoo clock-esque fashion), dancing around in a ceremonial offering to the Breakfast Gods, pops up in the back of my mind.
Even when he was living with us in Tokyo, he somehow managed to transform our tiny, decrepit, occassionally cockroach-infested, and Yakuza owned apartment into a glorious American diner, serving the most brilliant of greasy eggs and hashbrowns fit for even the most glutonous of American agricultural kings. The only difference being all the coffee we drank we picked up in Bali...
noodles with canned tuna fish and peas bro, you'll survive. i'm wondering if there could be daily metaphors in the form of the egg cooking process, the yolk membrane as a comfort zone, the pan as the inevitable variables of work/love/play, and you as you doing your damndest to get the over easy just right. do you use butter or olive oil? i got nothing on what that could mean, but between egg and pan it always depends on timing versus temperature.maybe this would work better in haiku-sorry, too much coffee, luv and respek
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