From My Handwritten Journal
A few hours after Program, I Uber'd over to downtown, where I got my first pair of shoes in over 5 years. It's a good thing Birkenstocks last for so long, considering how spendy they are, and that they are addictive hoof holders that prevent devoted wearers from wearing anything else for any period of time. The pair I had were literally falling apart. I'm talking three flaps of shoe, flopping with every step I took. Not to mention the shoes were too big for me, thanks to all the weight loss. I can attribute more than one fall, or almost fall, to wearing these menaces to my well-being. You can call me a lot of things, but Imelda Marcos ain't one of 'em, buddy!
Anyway, it did not take long to get what I went there for...the Arizona style of sandal, which was the first style I ever got, and still my favourite. At my request, the shoe saleswoman measured my feet and fitted me with a size 40 shoe, instead of the size 42 I had always worn before. When your shoes are too large on you, that's a definite indication that you've lost a fuckton of weight. I left my old shoes behind, in the box the new shoes came in, telling the saleswoman to consider the box a coffin for the long-dead zombie shoes.
Instead of Ubering straight back to the house, I decided to try out the new shoes (spit) (if you didn't get that joke, you're not a real Twin Peaks fan, just sayin'.) and mosy over to Balboa Park. That's where I am currently writing this, cradled in the giant roots of a eucalyptus tree. I've taken pics to accompany the journal entry. I tend to keep my handwritten journaling separate from the Cliffs of Insanity material but, in this instance, the twain shall meet, just for the hell of it.
When I got to the park, I made a beeline for the playground. The swings were empty, so I plopped my nearly 50-year-old arse down in one, and began to swing. I did this for about 15 minutes, all the while listening to a dude play his flute. After I finished swinging, I walked further into the park. When I passed the flautist, he began playing The Fiddler's Irish Jig. I don't know if he saw my green hair and opted to go full on Gael, breaking away from the Jazz he'd been playing exclusively up until I sashayed by, or if it was just an odd coincidence. Being a perpetual "victim" of synchronicity, I'm not a real big proponent of coincidence.
I guess I should head back to the house now. Margaret needs to talk to me about the move, and something tells me (like my body, duh) I'm going to need a bathroom sooner rather than later.