Dr. Nothing.

Sometimes during the week, I get dressed for a stroll along the boardwalk. I watch the barometric pressure closely and prefer the overcast and unnaturally chilly days; far fewer recreational walkers and barking dogs. I used the word stroll, which I normally wouldn't, because I cannot have walk and board WALK in the same sentence. This would make me seem uneducated.

And I am educated. Highly educated, as a matter of fact, highly over-educated. I was in University from 1992 to 2003. I have two BA's, a MASTERS and a PHD, all in different disciplines. I had seven girlfriends in this time, one pregnancy scare and a serious medical condition. Other than the academic titles, not much to show for 14 years of life.

But I thrived in the undemanding banality of those years. I studied in a glorified realm of academia for 14 years of my life to graduate as a first class Doctor of nothing. And I never planned on leaving it.

For some reason, I walk better in my oldest pair of briefs, which have shrunken not uncomfortably from over-washing. I cringe at all the trended types in their brand name sportswear. I step out in my old school Adidas track pants. I used to wear them every other day in grade 8. They are period blue, slim fit, zippered to the calf and have stirrups under each foot.

I do feel some power dressed like this. I know I am appraised. Good. Look at me closely when I can't catch your eye, then jog right back to your pathetic, porn addicted husband and your std riddled teens. Have a bottle of Pinot Gris, two Ambien and dream of a world without witches.

I check the barometric pressure and peek out the blind. Seems consistent with the last reading.

If my Grandfather's money didn't run out, I might still be a student of knowledge and theory. And I wonder if I wouldn't be better cast this way for eternity. A hungry academic with money can survive in university for decades. If the money flow ends, the academic is thrust onto society and society onto the academic.

This is never a symbiotic union.

I can do warm-ups in my room. The floor doesn't creek if I jog on the spot near the dresser. It's good to warm the muscles before action. I lie down and do stretches. The hamstrings need some work.

Like most of you have come to realize, day to day life is a horrendous circle, pulverizing us with insufferable calculation, without buffer nor fail safe in 7 day cycles. It's as if my window blind is the lone, fragile barrier against the utter absurdity of the Outside. Hostile and cruel are the times, and they are lashed to a clock which promotes a cruel and hostile future.

The carpet of my room is musty and unclean, but it's thick and holds me off the 2nd floor boards, which is a floor above the ground floor where just outside the chaos reigns.

I cherish the walls surrounding me. I touch the power outlets and rejoice in their universal anonymity. I can still boil water and passively receive a radio signal. I can make a true French omelet within these walls, but I won't own a phone. I can roll my own cigarettes here, untaxed by the left hand and unjudged by the right. It is a small, yet comfortable life here.

I am ready. Muscles are warm. Suit is fitting nicely. I take a look past the blind.

Sunshine. Oh No. It was just prefect minutes ago.

I'll just sit down and relax. I am sure it will cloud over soon. I can jog later. I don't jog at night but I have all the time in the day.

If the climate were cooperating, I'd be on the boardwalk now. This happens to me more often than you can imagine. Damn the sunshine.

Well, I'm dressed now. The clouds will come. Let me just go and check the barometric pressure.