Reach for the Stars

I was eating my Gardenburger when I realized that my paper towel has inspirational sayings on it. Gone are the days of cute pink teddy bears, American flags, or sprigs of spring flowers. Who needs a self-help book when millions of quilted rectangles of paper say "Live Life to its Fullest" or "Follow Your Heart and Your Dreams Will Come True." Am I so spiritually bankrupt that I need pithy adages on something that wipes the mayo from my face and fingers? Am I weird for being slightly offended by my paper towels?

As of 7:35 p.m. today, I had only smoked one cigarette. That was at 8:45 a.m. on my way to work and it made me feel nasty. Granted, I was smoking a most unsatisfying, au naturel American Spirit, but I thought that perhaps I needed a break. I did not buy any during the day, so my periodic smoke-breaks were out. I didn't even really want one on the way home from work, but I decided to buy a pack just in case. After my delicious dinner, I thought, "hey, an after dinner ciggy might be nice." So I pull the pack from my bag and proceeded to eagerly tear off the cellophane pull-tab. In my moment of addiction I considered tossing the wrapper onto the table and heading directly outside. What kind of thing is this that I would be willing to callously sully my home-environment with careless piles of wrappings? It was a nice experiment, this not smoking thing, but after only eleven hours, the craziness had already set in. "They" say that the first few days are the worst. That's probably true. If I follow my paper towel, I should "Live, Love, Laugh." Doesn't smoking severely inhibit these things in the long run? Eh, poo. Who listens to napkins anyway?

I found a dime in the washing machine today. It's always a dime; never a Susan B. or a shiny quarter. I wonder if dimes are the over-looked coin. So small and thin. Maybe people miss them when they are cleaning out their pockets on laundry day. Maybe it's the same dime every time. I find it, put it in my pocket, toss my pants on the floor, do laundry, and the cycle begins again.

On my way up the stairs from the basement I encountered Mr. Gub'ment Man. He lives on the first floor and drives a nondescript white car. His white, collared shirt and black slacks are always so neatly pressed. Sometimes a raucous and smoky-voiced woman is in his apartment. We call that "Bud-lite Night." I can never understand what she's saying, but she always sounds raspy and wasted. Last day-before-garbage day, I saw Mr. Gub'ment Man carting approximately 60 cans of Bud-lite to his Gub'ment car. I wish I new what Ms. Bud-lite looks like.