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Sunday, August 04, 2002
It was a Saturday night. I had waited for my friend's to call, but they never did. Nothing new. I don't know why I expected them to call me, I never call them. So I sat around, somewhat pitying myself and watched TV. I soon got tired of sitting around (early this morning), so I decided to take a walk. I strapped on my shoes, grabbed my hat and nearly empty pack of Swisher Sweet Menthol Little Cigars, and quietly headed out the door.
As I strolled along the paved road, I realized just how dark it is in the middle of nowhere with no moon. I'm usually not scared of the dark in wide open spaces, but having just caught the beginning of I Know What You Did Last Summer on TV, my imagination was full of all sorts of scenarios in which I was horribly mangled and murdered by a scruffy looking guy with a hook who was lurking behind every bush and in every ditch along the road.
I stopped along the way to relieve myself. As I continued on, I heard a noise from behind me and turned to see some medium sized mammel scrurry across the road. It scared the piss outta me, or rather, it would have had I not already peed in the bushes twenty yards back. But it wasn't the size of the scurrying animal that scared me; it was simply the fact that I hadn't known it was there until is was nearly on top of me. If it could sneak up on me, what's to say a larger beast, some horrible monster, couldn't do the same? Needless to say, I spent most of the rest of the walk looking over my shoulder.
After I had been walking for a while, I noticed the glow of headlights over a hill. I decided to hide behind a nearby roadside tree. I didn't hide because I was scared of the oncoming vehicle, though. I did it out of courtesy to the driver. How would I feel if I was driving on an unlit, rarely-traveled country road at two in the morning and I came across a creepy-looking smoking guy? I thought I'd spare the guy some nightmares and get out of sight.
Soon after the car passed by my hiding spot, I reached for another little cigar and realized that it was my last one. I lit it and headed back in the direction from which I'd come. As I thought over my reasons for hiding behind the tree, I realized that it was probably a better idea than I could have guessed at the time. The only people that are driving on rarely-traveled country roads at two o'clock on Sunday mornings are drunk hicks coming home from a Saturday night of partying. If they had seen me on the side of the road, they most likely would have either run me over or abducted and bum-raped me. Or maybe this was just my imagination again.
My last cigar was burned to the filter and I threw into the ditch along the side of the road. Sparks jumped from it's tip as it hit the ground. I was nearly home, and I was glad. That was unusual. Usually, my "thinking walks" don't seem long enough. Usually, I feel like I've accomplished something when I get back home. I often feel like I've come to some definitive conclusion to whatever I was thinking about. This stroll seemed different, though. I hadn't thought about anything in particular; I hadn't accomplished anything. I was just as scared and lonely and confused as I had been forty-five minutes ago, sitting inside my house. I decided that dark and lonely country roads should be left as the playground of transients, hobos, and crazies. I also decided that cigars and "thinking walks" are best taken in the company of friends if they are to be useful.
| Mr. McBastard | 11:53 PM | | |
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