Stoopid Walk Numero Two-O

I'm getting ready to go out on venture number three, so I thought I'd tell the stoopid story of Walk Numero Two-O.
As I recall, the only thing stupid about this walk was, ME. Yes, it's true. Let's see if I can remember.
I arrived at the office ricockulously early. I put on my beloved Camels, grabbed the mail that needed to be dropped off at the post office since I was going to be picking up Saturdays mail anyway, locked the door and was on my way.
My first thought heading out the door was, "Fuck. I don't even have $1.90 for my favorite tea."
What a fat loser.
My second thought was, "Do I really need to bring my keys ?", to which I decided I did not. So, brilliant me decided to leave them safely in my car until my return. No, in case you're trying to make your own retarded predictions, I did not lock them inside.
Off I went, happy to be on my way, with only a few little envelopes to hinder my amazing, graceful stride. I decided that today, I was going to count red doors. For some reason, it's become really popular in this town to paint your front door red. I don't even want to think about the symbolism of this, but I admit, it looks pretty good. Then I started getting all technical mind fucky and couldn't decide if I should count the purple-ish red doors and the orangy-red ones, or just the true reds. I still can't decide. And who really cares anyway? Why do I get these stoopid ideas?
So I get 10 steps from the post office and realize I don't have my P.O. box key. Crap! Oh well, I'll just walk back. I'm out to exercise after all, so what's the big deal? So I go back. When I open my car door for my keys, I suddenly remember that I do have a few dollars for my tea, hiding in the mess of my crap. Well that's pretty fucking cool. But now I have to bring my keys and my wallet, right? No, fuck that. I'm just going to hold those 2 bucks with the mail and tip the Big Dumb Ass my left over dime. How sweet of me.

Everything is going well. I didn't accidentally drop my precious 2 dollars into the mail slot. Again there were no cars at the intersection, and, la la la, Big Dumb Ass is nowhere to be seen in the cafe. Not only that, but, some young, cute guy is working the counter. Alone. And not only does he understand that I'm standing there with a tea bag wanting hot water to make tea, this little cutie pie double cups it for me so I don't burn my cute little hands.
Now I'm feeling quite fine, and take off on roads untraveled. I went down alleys, backlots, and places you just can't go in your car. It's amazing. I can go just about anywhere, me and my Camel Toes. So I decided I'd walk by the local radio station and do something vulgar in front of the window to the dedicated (read bored) morning show peeps. I get kinda giddy thinking about how fun this is going to be, when as I approach, I see the Lawn Mower Man out front. Shit. I'm not going to act like a crazy person in front of the Lawn Mower Man. Radio personalities on air, sure, but not this guy.
Disappointed, I traveled down the road and through one of my old hoods. I meant to take a short cut back to the post office to pick up the mail that I didn't pick up yet so I could have my hands free as long as possible, but I got distracted. I kept going. And going. I was almost back to the office before I realized this. Fuck again! Oh well, there goes one more quart of Ben and Jerry's at least.
So I back track, and end up going through the mail truck parking lot instead of the Idiot Customer entrance ( perhaps I'll explain this towns ricockulous post office dynamics in a future blog), and to my childish delight, I find a dime on the ground. For some reason, when I find a coin, I have to see what year it is, like there might be some significant meaning or something stoopid. As I read 2001, I realize that today is September 11th. Nine Eleven. D-day. Twin Towers shit. Freaked me out a bit. (You can read my other blog for more fun adventures on this.) So I left it on the sorting table inside the post office for someone else to freak out about when they find it.
When I finally get back to the office, I realize I've started my fucking period. Of course I have no tampons in my desk. Nobody else does either. With my fingers crossed, I rummage through the glove box in my car. This is where I put all things needed to save me from myself. Matches, pens, rubber bands, paper clips, tampons, tanning spray, a sewing kit and a teeny first aide pack. Some retards are smart enought to cover their own asses, (or bloody crotches) and luckily, I'm one of them. There it was, my tampon in shining armor, to save my pants and my day.
So my walk on this day, was a retarded circus of errors, except for the little smart cutie at the cafe. Thank god or whatever for the small pleasures.