Keep rubbing my nose in it, maybe it'll clear my sinuses.

So here I am.
Fat, fucked up and 40, spending one of the biggest party Saturdays of the year alone in my dingy apartment, on the computer, wondering just what the fuck the point of it all is.

I know, as a good little nihilist I need to accept that there is no point, no grand purpose, you just do what you need to in order to survive and if you can eke out a little happiness along the way you're one of the lucky ones.

But lately I find myself wondering.

I think it's because my health is taking a turn for the worse and I'm having fewer good days (I use to average a couple dozen or so a year, now it seems it's down to under one a month).

And of course the doctors still have no idea what it is.  What I got zapped with, or where, or what combination of ailments are working together to make daily life so wonderfully adventurous (what with the random nausea and dizzy spells that seem to come on for no reason and make it impossible to engage in all those taxing and demanding physical activities like standing, walking, sitting in a chair, etc.) 

Of course paying for the tens of thousands of dollars worth of tests has been an adventure in itself.

Not to mention correcting some of the injuries that they found along the way which were apparently not related to the larger problems.

But I digress...

I started this rant thinking I would talk about the immense beauty and unlikelihood of existence.

See, I was thinking the other day (while buying a lottery ticket in the vain hope of someday being able to actually retire, or at least walk away from my current shit job)  that it's quite possible that we are all allocated a certain amount of luck at the beginning. 

But that we use most of that luck just being born.  Beating out the millions of other sperm cells, surviving to term, not to mention the sheer unlikelihood of there being a planet in this chaotic maelstrom of a universe that is populated with semi-sentient ape creatures who've created lamp posts (see Terry Pratchett for the significance of that one).

Anyway, I got to wondering if that is the extent of our luck.  That being born, your circumstances, your health... That's where your luck went.  And the rest, the reason some folks skate bye for no apparent reason while others barely scrape bye when (in a sane world) they should be thriving;  well those are just numerical outliers.  The occasional blip in an otherwise statistically orderly equation.

I don't know where I'm going with this.

In a different life I'd be drunk right now, and probably much better at finishing a ramble like this.

But this isn't a different life.



I'm weary.
And a part of me, the part that hasn't yet been burned away by reason, well it keeps asking "When can I go home?"

Somewhere else, sometime other

70 mile per hour hiss
horizontal fall through halogen fog
loose piston slap
vulcanized rumble

Marconi's box gives an intermittent static whine

40 miles to Denver...

Escape velocity

Can't swallow the lies much longer
choking on hypocrisy
marathon endurance
how much more can you take?

Feign blindness
force ignorance
faking smiles
carrying on.

Every evening
on my way to work
I come to the turn in the road
and consciously, consentaneously, I fight the urge to keep driving.










I don't normally like to stay in the same place for too long

I can now honestly say that I've tried it, and I definitely don't care for it

 I still have an obligation or two to see to