It's been a really shitty few days. If you juggle too many revving chainsaws in front of a heckling crowd, you'll eventually end up dropping one, if not several, leading to gushing arteries and severed limbs. Kind of like Watchmen. But that's beside the point.
The last few weeks have been riddled with epiphany. It's like I'm living Dubliners. But after several overblown, pseudodramatic realizations (none of which actually followed the narrative structure to which I am so damned dedicated), I decided to treat myself to Resident Evil 5 and some carrots. Two blocks away from Target, a cat ran into the middle of the road and I couldn't stop in time.
This may sound silly and childish and emotionally regressed (I've been called worse), but it's hard to stay in your own little world of self-pitying navelgazing when the fire of a life goes out under your Accord's front driver's side tire.
After I made it to Target, too shell-shocked to drive within even ten miles of the speed limit, I trudged through the aisles, no longer even remotely excited for what was to supplant my spring break with some mindless fun, but it seems a bit inappropriate to spend $60 to murder hordes of zombies after you've been responsible, albeit indirectly, for the death of another creature.
I soldiered on and bought it anyway. Got a 2-liter of The Good Dr. Pepper, a pound of carrots, and a loaf of bread. I got back out ot my car and as I opened the driver's side door to climb in, I noticed a streak of blood on the tire. It took me about half an hour to regain my composure, although I'm sure that listening to Nick Cave wasn't helping much.
In summary, I guess what this all comes down to is that I really wanted to see you.