jury duty
breakfast: metal detector, coffee with milk, blueberry muffin while sitting in jury clerk's room
mid-morning: more waiting, metal detector again (again it beeps when passing over my h&m big steel belt buckle), finishing the new yorker i was catching up with, cancelling 3:30pm interview (dammit)
lunch: the best thai food in new york, conveniently next door to the courthouse, started reading before night falls
afternoon: metal detector, getting released from jury duty for the next four years. yes. back to work, console my recruiter, clear inbox, reply to several dantewoo emails (lately i've been getting some frankly obsessive fanmail. it is flattering and scary, and don't worry, chances are it's not from you), complaining about my sore arms (trying to make my forearms bigger and the recovery is rough), leaving work early
pre-workout snack: another muffin (gotta stop that, but i was starving and wanted carbs for the gym), apple, thinking about what arenas was saying about the sexuality and violence and freedom of growing up in poor farmlands, thinking about the last time i was in a wide open field (even better in the rain, even better yet at night)
workout: 20 minutes of stairs, 10 minutes of bicycle (would've/could've done more but my calves were cramping up and i couldn't make them stop), 75 upper torso crunches, 30 middle crunches, 24 lower crunches (thanks jocko!) leaving to go grocery shopping, one of few errands that relaxes me.
dinner: tomato-based stew of italian sausage and kale, cherry coke
post-dinner:
post-love: unwind from fucking by listening to saukrates featuring common, "play dis":
shout out to honeys working them hourglass hipseat a tofutti cutie (new mint chocolate chip flavor) (but dante, you may say, you are a tofutti cutie), read the reesesworld.com mention, fire him off a picture, write this stuff, think about the taxes i haven't paid yet.
stay soprano, reading Cyrano
dramatic episodes, yo Common
let me play with niggas' brains like clay kits
when I rock stage hits
skip the rumors and lies
so you're under the stairs
when I drop my hip-hop, you'll be some Maytag repairman
and flip flop the fake, who thought the scared
and half-assed niggas sending you back to drawing boards
to deliver the real shit, al least we'll spit on you mics
i'm versatile like a plate of real grits, kid.
bedtime: sleep with the windows open. love that. posted April 11, 2001 in delivery
