"Stolen Time," Violence, Buyer's Remorse & Flight Plans

In the ongoing quest for career freedom, I called in today. This was planned last night, as Rachael and I played King's Corners and, for the first time in my life, mixed beer, wine & hard alcohol into one evening. Nothing eventful came of this, of course. My alcoholic binges involve shots of Broker's(the worst whiskey ever), chasing it with wine and then grapefruit juice when the wine is gone, and playing card games. In my apartment.

So, what did I do with my "stolen time"?

Beat San Andreas. Something of a relief. Can move on to less aggravating video gaming.

Wandering around downtown, jubilant in my freedom from slavery when a man in a backpack approaches me. He's a black man, looking somewhere around 35-ish.
"You like hip-hop?" He brandishes handmade CDs. "Local stuff."
I'm intrigued.
"It's my own stuff. Got 11 songs for 8 bucks, 25 songs for 15, or 50 songs for 20."
My mood has affected me. I'm curious. Normally I'd just say no thanks. I tell him I don't have any cash.
"Well, whatchu got? I'll work with you."
I tell him I have none. The truth. "But, uh, will you still be here?"
"What, you gonna go get money or something?"
"Yeah, my bank, it's right up the street."
"Naw man, but I'll walk wi cha."
This surprises me, but I shrug. All right.
My bank is farther than I remembered. Along the way he talks about moving, his kids, how he likes white girls but only if they got big asses. We pass some Japanese kids and he tries to hustle them in Japanese. This makes me smile.

At my bank he's respectful, standing far away from the ATM. I feel bad about him walking all this way. I shouldn't. But he looks tired and he's really sweating. Niceness adversely affects me. I buy 3 CDs instead of one. 30 bucks. A lot of money, kind of.
When I get home I'll listen to one and have to turn it off halfway through. I damn kindness and good moods.

Speaking of weakness, next I'll go to Red Eye. I could see Grizzly Man, but somehow I'm more in the mood for a likely waste of time. As it turns out, it's watchable thanks to Cillian Murphy and Rachel McAdams. I think I love her.

At the theatre a beautiful girl shows up, alone. She's gorgeous, with long black hair, soft Pacific Island(maybe?) features and flip-flops. Periodically through the movie I think how easy it should be to talk to her. Get up shortly after her and casually ask, "So what'd you think?" Reserve my opinion if it differs from her. The perfect in, or should be. The movie isn't even over and I am already lamenting the opportunity I am going to undoubtedly pass up. What do I have to lose? Why is it so hard for me to just say something? What's the worst that could happen? She could snub me. And then I'd be hurt, a little. But what if she didn't? I will never know.

The movie ends on a sour note. She gets up. I get up. I'm trying to muster the courage. At the exit she steps out and holds the door open for me. "Thank you," I say. And then I pass her. I catch a glimpse of her reflected in a mall window and that's the last I see of her. I let her go her way and I go mine. How many of these will I pass up? How much of my own life can I let slip through my fingers, confined by shyness?