My parking pass works on the street right outside my favorite cafe. Or rather, it did work. It’s not expired but it is invalid because I got it from a girl who used to live in this neighborhood but has since moved. This means it looks like a valid pass but if the meter maids ran the number on it, I would be fucked. I keep pressing my luck with this thing, which is a bad idea because I have multiple delinquent fines which I already have no intention of paying. One day a meter maid is going to clock into the parking office, grab his stupid bike helmet and go to get into his stupid three-wheeled car when he’ll be accosted by his fat, lesbian boss with a do-nothing job that earns her (and her dogs) three times what I make plus benefits, and she’ll waddle over to him and hand him a memo that says TODAY CHECK FOR INVALID PASSES. He will think how much of a hassle it is that he can’t just look at the color of the pass and he will have to actually get out and type in the number on the pass and it will kind of ruin his day. I will get an exorbitant $56.50 parking fine which I won’t pay until it costs $150 and I’m at the DMV and I can’t register my car.
There’s a guy or two guys maybe at the table adjacent to me. I believe one of them is a tranny. She/he looks just like this kid I know who plays guitar only with tits. She/he has a prominent chin, defined jawline and greasy-looking hair. He doesn’t use conditioner I think. Being a woman might be harder than it looks. His date (or whatever) is wearing a wrinkly white tee shirt which I imagine isn’t freshly washed and probably kind of stinks if you put your nose right up to it. He’s wearing docker cargo shorts with a knife perched in his right pocket. His shirt is tucked in. Tube socks and running shoes, of course. He’s leaning in and they’re talking. Her voice is deep. Fuck. Maybe that’s not a tranny but a natural woman who just had too much in-utero testosterone. I don’t know but I can’t stop looking at her. I want to know what they’re talking about. I want to know so badly.
I can’t take this stagnation. I don’t have any inspiration unless I load my brain up with amphetamines. I have a pervasive anxiety that I’m never doing enough even though I basically have no goals. I met a beautiful girl in a sundress yesterday and we talked about David Foster Wallace while we smoked Export-A cigarettes. Shit like that never happens to me. It was good. She was present and her eyes were bright and she had a weird smile. She hadn’t read Infinite Jest either, but who the fuck has?