Bowling

I used to have a nice large wooden bowl, right inside my front door, a nice large wooden bowl. I have no idea where it came from, but I put everything in that bowl: keys, cellphone, lighter, wallet, smokes, change, receipts, mp3 player, camera, whatever the hell else was in there... It was a decorative filing cabinet of sorts. I never lost any minutiae when I had that bowl. It made it through three or four moves before disappearing from me at some point. Now I'm starting to lose things. I never used to lose things, and this has been problematic. I miss the certainty.

The Cynic Diogenes was said to go around in a barrel (as apparel), with his only possession being (aside from the barrel) a wooden bowl that he used to drink from. One day he looked up saw a boy drinking from cupped hands and spoke, “I throw my bowl away when I see a child drinking from his hands at the trough. I've had a perfectly good vessel all this time!”
Also, this one time he was caught masturbating in the town square and when confronted said, "If only I could soothe my hunger by rubbing my belly."
I miss my bowl.
I need a new bowl.

Trivia follows, also Diogenes quotes

“A friend is one soul abiding in two bodies”

“I know nothing, except the fact of my ignorance”

Diogenes, when asked from what country he came, replied, "I am a citizen of the world”

“A man once asked Diogenes what was the proper time for supper, and he made answer, "If you are a rich man, whenever you please; and if you are a poor man, whenever you can”

“Of what use is a philosopher who doesn't hurt anybody's feelings?”

“I do not know whether there are gods, but there ought to be.”

Exhibitionist and philosopher, Diogenes is said to have eaten (and, once, masturbated) in the marketplace, urinated on some people who insulted him, defecated in the theatre, and pointed at people with his middle finger. Sympathizers considered him a devotee of reason and an exemplar of honesty. Detractors have said he was an obnoxious beggar and an offensive grouch.

Despite having apparently nothing but disdain for Plato and his abstract philosophy, Diogenes bears striking resemblance to the character of Socrates. He shared Socrates' belief that he could function as doctor to men's souls and improve them morally, while at the same time holding contempt for their obtuseness. Plato once described Diogenes as "a Socrates gone mad."

There's even a Diogenes syndrome...
amphitheatre

I miss the hell out of that bowl.

Windows 3.1

Night and Day I gaze out my window. From sixteen stories up I can see many things: a parking lot I rarely gaze at, forests I often scan. A bayou that I'm curious about: just what are you a tributary to? Roads with cars so distant they resemble junebugs, the dumbest of all the insects. An endless blue canvass with clouds that constantly paint new pictures across the horizon. I see refineries that belch thick black smoke by day, but twinkle so beautifully at night, a floating sea of lights soft and pale. And trains on a track, heading god only know where. And I won't lie, it pisses me off that here in my soundproof booth, I’m able to gaze on those trains, but unable to hear the rattle of engine on tracks, the creak of creosote soaked ties thick and sturdy, the mournful blues of a whistle piercing the night. I catch myself staring at these rambling freight trains, curious as to their destination, hearing in my head all the lonesome train whistles of my youth. I would be guilty of the sin of omission if I didn't admit that almost every time I catch myself idly watching a passing freighter I wish I were on it. I have to admit that some part of me, buried deep down next to the core, wants to be on that train, that one right there. Riding the 12:15 out of Houston, with my pack and bedroll, rolling out of this town and on down the road to somewhere, anywhere. I would that I were being slowly lulled to sleep by the rattle of wheel on rail, serenaded by those aching, lonesome, promising blues of a whistle crying out in the dark, on my way to whatever comes after here.

Mongolian Clusterfulck

"Well, if that wasn't a prime example of a Mongolian clusterfuck right there, then I don't know half as much about clusterfucks as I thought I did," you said.
"I don't care what deity I've offended," my cowerker said, "I didn't skull fuck an infant, I never raped a nun, I don't deserve to have Ricky Martin, late eighties Aerosmith, and Brittany Spear's Toxic thrust on me all at once. Or the Knickleback," He shudders visibly. "I'm never surprised, but I am perpetually disappointed by the crap that gets played on the jukebox."

"You drive safe now," you said, to the last employee to meander home save yourself. He had stained a brand new shirt with wine while trying to slam the wrought iron security door closed. He was giggling excessively. You hope he made it home safe.

Time for you to leave. Double-check the storefront. Locked like a chastity belt. Good to go. You flick on you bike lights and check the cross traffic. Execute a graceful yet momentum-building loop out of the parking lot and take off like the devil's own are after you. Speed up and ask yourself if you’re, "doin it?" Answer yourself affirmatively and start the race home. Hit 32 mph and lean your weight to the outside as you scream around the corner at Helena. Listen for the noise of a car approaching the stop sign at Mason rd. Feather the brakes, and then trust your luck. You’re pushing yourself and enjoying it. Your lungs are burning, and your legs are groaning in protest as you fly past the whores and the crack dealers, the transients and the cars. Your completely consumed by the desire to move, the desire for speed. You are the wind.

Home safe. Glance left to right before you unlock the gate. Make sure no one is coming at you. Act defensive if they are. Maybe pull out that taser or that butterfly knife. You can't be to careful in your neighborhood. Go inside your crappy apartment and prepare to sleep, after availing yourself to your food. Food is the shit. Your head hits the pillow as the sun starts the day.