Day 91: OK ok OK

So I have this depression when I'm not at work or working.  I wonder if this is something my mind is doing to condition itself to keep on working.  I feel great as long as I'm putting words down on the page (like this one).  Or reading things.  I have a feeling that this will help me get a lot of things done.  Also, for the first time in my life, I feel lonely!  This is great because it makes me want to be around people, and when I am around people I don't feel like it's forced or that I'm supposed to entertain.

Read a bunch of stuff about Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  Probably have that.  Every spoiled kid probably has that to some degree.  Even the poorest person in America has an easier life than kings in earlier generations had:  transportation, health care, heat, etcetera.  People don't need anything anymore, and we work for a means to an end.  Or atleast the Proletariat does, which unfortunately is me right now.  I should "quit my day job" and just write for a year straight.  Thinking about it...  I absolutely hate work anyway.  Then I'd figure out how to channel all of this into a positive... thing.

Anyway, back to writing.  Going to remain completely focused for an hour and see if I get to my thousand word goal.  I'd prefer to be writing in the morning but beggars can't be choosers.

/end.dear.diary.segment

            Diane was a voluptous beauty, a real looker indeed.   Space Cowboy kept a picture in his wallet, which was unfolded in the palm of his hand.  She was lassoing a three horned antelope while riding a razorback wearing a full leather outfit, covered head to toe in animalistic femininity.  He shed a tiny tear as he fondled his forehead vein.

            The lights in the bar dimmed, the stainglass windows reflected light from the outside like it was light otuside.  The duplications showed a giant ferocious looking chimera stranded on a yellow planet, which was surrounded on each side by surreal style smaller primary colors.  It looked like childrens artwork, but really good childrens artwork.  And it didn’t set a tone for the bar at all.  A microphone made a shrill static noise as it was powered on, and a pencilnecked geek with black greased back hair flattened out the microphone chord with his black zip up boots.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies, welcome tonight to the Velvet Fairie.”  He twisted an imaginary moustache and a dark skinned eskimo hit a drum roll somewhere behind the stage.  “We’ve got three sets of two tonight.  First act up is the Cannibal Caped Crusaders.”  A boo resounded from the table of tough guy types.  The band, who was situated at a table directly in front of the stage squirmed.  “They’ll be quick… Next we have Bruno Pornto and his Imfamous Gears.”  A second boo.  Bruno Pornto was a cross dressing snake charmer with full arab garb.  “Tough crowd.  I know you guys will like our third act though.  The one, the only Paige Barrow is on after them, the hiatus is over.”

            “Hot dog, she hasn’t performed in years.”  Kenny slammed his fist and mug down.  “If you thought your Diane was something, this one will set you straight in just about four minutes flat.  Sometimes it doesn’t even take that long.”

            Space Cowboy scoffed.  Simple space cattle folk, he thought.

            “Where’s your girl, Kenny?”  He sat with both arms loosely hanging on each side and the mug in front of him.

            “I told you, I’m stranded.  If I try to jump a cattle ship out, I could be killed.  There’s an indefinite hiatus on my travel papers.  She’s on the other side of the galaxy.”

            The groups performed heavy metal folk on acoustic guitars.  The songs were originals, the sound system and acoustics were awful, and the gawkers who made their way in just as quickly left.  The old fashioned swinging doors let the twilight cast a shadow into the artificial light of the hall.

            “What’s taking so long?!  Get her up on stage!”  Kenny said, the pitcher half empty in front of him.  Drunks from the other tables chuckled.

            “Hey, cool it Ken.  The lady looks like she’s had a rough night.”

            Paige Barrow sat by the utility sink behind the bar, quietly relieving her face into a bar napkin.  It was unclear whether she was crying, blowing her nose, laughing, or simply hiding her face. 

            A sound Space Cowboy recognized as a draft from his days on Earth blew by outside.  The space locomotive flew by at speeds exceeding light.  A man wearing a sheriffs badge stumbled over the threshold, favoring his left arm that had three red gashes in it penetrating through his overcoat.  The bouncer and a crying female ran to his side, clutching him by both arms as he cried out in pain.  The women lamented like a funeral singer.  He leaned forward and spit up a mouth full of crimson spit, rubbing his face with the unbloodied sleeve.

            “Space Ranger is walking in a straight line… across security checkpoints… he’s not just an ordinary man!”  The man said, the fear of God behind his eyes.

            Space Cowboy sighed and pulled his hat down over his eyes.  Paige finally was taking the stage, a harried stagehand gathering the gear of the other groups which still littered the stage.  She removed a tin harp from a black box, delicately opening each metal clasp on a jet black case.  Her floral skirts sat across her crossed legs like wrapping paper. 

            Kenny sat slack jawed, slapping his knee and humming loudly before she even started a song.  His lips perpetually mouthed the words “hot dog”, even when he wasn’t talking.  He tapped his foot when he got sick of slapping his knee.

            The metal plate in Space Cowboy’s head vibrated, an uncomfortable tectonic shift taking place under his scalp.  “Yeah, yeah.”  He said to himself, forcing his legs to pick him up.  The spurs on his boots dug into the ground.  The rest of the bar was placated, staring graciously up at the stage, even the wounded officer by the door had become silent.

            “Siddown and let the lady play!”  The bouncer yelled, interupting the act more than Space Cowboy was doing.

            Just then, a militia of three men burst through the swinging doors, crashing directly into the wounded man by the door.  His arm made a hideous slurping noise and popped. 

            He cried out in agony but the three men carried him to the back hall of the bar by the restrooms, assuring him “there was no time for that now.”

            A blue suit of armor of a man pushed through the doors, a purple visor covering his knights helmet.  A single red eye flashed behind the visor, and with each flash it became brighter and more vibrant. 

Space Cowboy dove out of the booth, retrieving a pistol that looked more like two pieces of cardboard carved and fitted into the shape of  a plus sign.  The house lights suddenly came back on, and Paige scrambled to reinsert her autoharp into its case, falling over helplessly in the process.

The larger rowdy men at the table shouted obscenities at the Space Ranger.

“Haven’t you guys ever seen a Space Ranger before?!  Don’t look into his eye!”  Space Cowboy said, the red eye from the visor focusing across at him.  It refocused forward on the stage, and it hovered forward, the gravitational push of its immense weight shifting the placemats on the booths around it.