For the rest of us that failed the promise that the Marines have given, who haven't lived to our potential and haven't done nothin' with the freedoms we have and haven't managed to ever once get rid of a leader who pushes us around like chips on a game board and we haven't even bothered to fight the slow slide to economic disaster and we don't even bother trying to conserve or grow our own food or do anything other than constantly survive on the whiny middle class ethic that chokes our breathing in the middle of the night, for the rest of us, there is a long slow slide to hell being sold to us by glossy catalogs from Crate and Barrel. My my, the blood on our hands doesn't stick to those pages!
You can put that in your "don't know what ya said" book.
I have one of those.
It looks a lot like this website.
The drive to work was given a soundtrack by Bob Dylan.
If there is a better gettin' on down the road song than Bob Dylan's Black Diamond Bay, then I don't know it, and I've heard all the good gettin' on down the road songs. It's a story about a bad scene, and how little the world's disater means to the television watchin' American beer drinker. See first paragraph.
Last night right before I fell asleep, I had this dream that I was driving to work and the music on the stereo was the soundtrack for my day. Then my wife came to bed, turned the teevee on, and shattered every last shred of decent dream with loud defeat. I hate that goddamn box. I will sabotage it.
We all have names for our body parts.
The biggest show stopping thought in my head lately is Twenty Years From Right Now, wherein I try to determine exactly how crippled I will be. This back pain echoes long into the future. I am hoping that in ten years, new surgical techniques will surface that have better odds, odds of not crippling me further. I can wait. But when I think twenty years from right now, I have no choice by to imagine my body broken and worn down by twenty more years, then I add in today's pain and, well, I lose all hope for myself. At least, I say to myself, I am optimistic enough to believe that I will still be alive after humanity falls apart and chaos reigns. I mean, that will happen soon as we run out of oil, right? So, yeah. I'm a survivor. I will surveev.
And when I do, all hunched over and limping, swaddled in animal fur and walking with a shotgun in one hand and a walking stick in the other, I will become what my potential insists upon: a feast for the animals who will run me down and eat me.
I am nourishment for the body. Do this for the rememberence of me.
The Yarbles, Mister. The Goddamn Yarbles.
I'm sorry, was I supposed to make any goddamn sense this morning? C'mon, it's Wednesday. No one makes sense on wednesday, least of all me, over here, the guy on Ultracet. Sheeesh.
Maybe you should stop writing until the drugs wear off?
Yeah. Where would that leave us?
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