His Routines Bite Hard
He usually wakes up early in the morning, not because he has to or likes to. He likes the idea of early mornings, they just don’t work with his preference for late nights. He wakes up early because his stomach feels like it’s being torn wide open and repeatedly stabbed with a dull serrated knife. He has an exceptionally high tolerance for pain but this makes him whimper and moan. (No doctor has figured out why; it’s a rare disease that has no name, perhaps one day it will be named after him.) Once the morning ritual of agony passes he uncurls from the fetal position, wipes his eyes, crawls out of bed, freshens up, puts on his uniform, and walks out the door.
He walks everywhere and wonders why he even owns an automobile. He would sell it if it weren’t for the fact there isn’t a grocery store or video store within walking distance, he likes to take aimless drives, and he loves to travel to urban areas. When he didn’t own a car he used to hitchhike everywhere. He sort of misses all the interesting people he would talk to. However, he doesn’t miss the creepy guys at all. He tends to walk fast, people make fun of him for that. As he walks, he looks for interesting things to photograph or pick up. Spring is a good time to find junk on the ground: melting snow reveals many treasures, dog shit too. He has a respectable collection of rusty bits.
He arrives at work, in one of the coolest old buildings in Burlington.
He fires up his G5 and dives into various projects. The things he works on can been seen in grocery stores, video stores, and many other places. He’ll never say what they are (unless you ask) because he would rather be known for other things and doesn’t like to brag.
Throughout the day, he occasionally glances out the window to his right.
After he is finished with work, he walks home. He’s usually in a rush because he wants to work on his own projects. People rarely see them and they don’t produce money, perhaps someday; right now, he doesn’t care.
He stays up late, tinkering with this and that. Eventually he falls asleep, occasionally in a bed. Hopefully, he wakes up in the morning and the cycle repeats.
He knows many people, alas, he considers few to be friends and vice versa. He is more than OK with that; he has always believed in quality, not quantity. He obviously doesn’t have much of a social life — never has and never will, it’s not in his nature to. When he does go out, he usually goes by himself to an art gallery, movie theatre, concert, café, or bookstore. He rarely goes out with friends, unless someone holds a gun to his head.
He is very troubled theses days, somethings he can’t ignore or move away from. He hopes people will buy his artwork, hire him to design, commission a piece of art, or invest in S.R. Wild Industries.
He doesn’t like writing in the third person, he just finds it entertaining to talk about himself like he isn’t there.