Unfocused Content

Rob Thomas is tired of being lonely, the woman who can’t read the giant “Order Here” sign is lactose intolerant, and the guy that stole my booth near the window has on an ugly sweater.

The sweater may not be that bad. It could be that I wanted that booth. And maybe the lady can read, she’s just unfamiliar with the universal layout of Subways across America. And, maybe she loves dairy, but is being health conscious by omitting the cheese from her turkey sandwich.

Maybe Rob Thomas enjoys being lonely. (I doubt he gets much practice at it.) Maybe he’s just singing the words that someone else wrote. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that this is my brain. Not on drugs, just plain old regular. I’m just trying to have lunch, and think about life, and why I can never seem to make my bosses happy. But I can’t even get there, because of the three million things going on in my mind.

Maybe thats it. Maybe the real problem is the guy with “67” on his shoes. Why does he have “67” on his shoes? It has no bearing on my life, but it is there, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

It is obvious to me that Subway was a bad choice for lunch. The sub of the day is “Meatball,” which I ordered because I am cheap, even though I can’t stand meatball subs. I can feel the breeze as the minutes of my lunch hour whiz by, my stomach is full of crappy sandwich, my mind is full of “67,” and I am nowhere nearer an answer to life’s most basic questions.

Basic, that is, for me. They may not apply to anyone else in the universe, though somehow I think they do. “What the hell, dude?” That is a good question. Especially when followed by “What the $#*& where you thinking?” See how the frustration seems to build with the subsequent questions?

Fast forward. We’re back in the parking lot at work. When I left Subway, there was a cop and a crazy guy outside. The drive was punctuated by a call from my insurance agent informing me that I am officially worth more dead than alive, and Paul Simon telling me that he loves his daughter more than I love mine.

That is not the intent of the song, of course. I am supposed to put myself inside the lyrics as if I were speaking them, getting all teary-eyed in the process. I don’t do that. All I can think of is Paul Simon singing to his kid. I’m assuming he wrote the song, since he has a history of such things. I do love my daughters more than anything in the world, and that’s what Paul is getting at. He is speaking to a universal truth.

That’s the stuff I should be writing. Another universal truth is that, as women age, hair care becomes a burden, forcing them to have “carefree” cuts. I doubt there is much to write about there, but I’m sure if I sat for a while I could come up with others.

My main misconception is that I am going through all of this solo. First Ascent. And no one is following me. Misconception because I know it can’t be true. Other people have gone nuts, are nuts, or will be nuts. But, from here it feels pretty lonely. I guess Rob Thomas was right.

So what is the universal truth, besides loving kids and old women hair? Subway meatball sandwiches? Maybe “67” is a universal truth. But, what do I have in common with the rest of the world? The shrink lady said it was that everyone in the world hates their job. That depresses me.

I wonder if my doctor hates it when I visit? Not because of me, but because I am one more hurdle in his daily 60 mile run uphill. I wonder if my boss hates her job? Isn’t anyone happy doing anything for a living?

I’ve wasted away my lunch hour. The rest of the day promises to be filled with joy and excitement. I’ll keep you posted.

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