DEAR DIARY: The Deleted Scenes

-February 15, 2008-
I am struck with the urge to go out and paint the town red, but not really. The fact of the matter is that out of the blue the phrase just pops into my head. I don’t understand the saying, literally. Yeah, I get the meaning but the origins of the phrase confound me. And besides, it has never been a saying that I have been fond of, aesthetically speaking. It just sounds, well, lame.
But it sticks, regardless. Sadly, being an introvert pretty much guarantees that bringing this late night urge within the boundaries of reality is an impossible notion. I don’t even really know what one would have to do, when you get right down to it, to paint a town red.
What I do do is this:
I go to the garage, lured by hazy memories of some forgotten paint cans in a back corner. Yes, there is a red one… well, maroon really, but let’s not be sticklers.
I can paint myself red.
On second thought the paint looks old. What are the possibilities that it is lead based? And I do have to work in two days. I doubt that I could adequately remove a coat of paint from my body by then. So, in light of that, I opt to paint my hand red instead. Well, actually I just dip it into the can after prying the lid off with my house key—my only key. I feel like I can make excuses for bringing a red hand to work.
The paint is thick and cold and I have to push through a skin that has formed on the surface, like when you heat up milk on the stove.
Now I have a painted hand. How long is this going to take to dry? I go out to the lawn and whip the excess paint off of my hands. It looks more brown than red.
After two minutes of blowing on my hand I get bored and I get the urge to search for a Ron Popeil infomercial on the T.V.
My hand is still wet so I stick it in a plastic grocery bag and go inside.
My room came with a T.V. and I have never turned it on. It has been plugged in for the 6 months that I have been here but has been transformed into a piss-poor version of a shelf that has a knack for dropping the things I put on top of it all over the floor…usually when I am asleep.
It boasts a set of antennae of the telescoping variety that I fear will one day put out an eye. I turn on the television and it responds with a spray of static. No amount of antennae manipulation will get me anything more than a hazy representation of the local FOX affiliate.
Does Ron Popeil even do infomercials anymore?
Maybe on Nick at Night?
It has become apparent that I probably don’t get Nick, night or day—or at an unreasonable time of morning, as some would refer to this particular moment in time.
What now?
I go back to the garage, following the paint drippings from my first dunking back to the scene of the crime. I dunk my other hand because it is 3 AM and I have nothing else to do. Taking the bag off of my other hand I find the paint tacky and splotchy so I re-dunk it and then go sit on the patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street to dry and think about what it is I have become.
I wake up at dawn cold and shivering, hands covered in grass clippings and small bugs. It would appear that I rolled from the lawn to the sidewalk, in the process covering myself in maroon paint smears.
Paint the town red, indeed.