Any revolution requires creative destruction. While part of me would love to "jack some sh!t up," violence isn't my bag. I just want to have some options, a new way of working and living. That's all the revolution I need. I'm tired of being a wage slave, a pawn, a cog. I don't need to be a big man. It would just be nice to be a man.
Something about listening to Glenn Miller makes me feel super hip. Man, that cat could swing.
I battle constantly with demons. I sought from a young age to become enlightened. I've read, I've meditated, I've taken psychotropics and anti-depressants. Like an American Beauty, I've worked hard to climb my way out of the manure-soaked dirt of my bloodlines. Anyone who's traveled this path knows some days you smell like a rose and other days you stink of shit.
Guess which day this was.
I attended my Aunt Sharon's funeral today. I got up early, shaved, put on a clean, white shirt & wore dress shoes. I demonstrated my respect like a civilized man. Didn't expect a lot of warmth and hugging when I got there, but I never stop being amazed at some of the shit I am related to.
Today, I was reminded what classless trash Sharon's children are. Those animals deliberately left my mother off the list of surviving siblings. I don't believe it was my Aunt Sharon's will either considering their last contact was pleasant if not ebullient.
This act of pettiness was mean-spirited, yes, but surprisingly passive-aggressive. Really such a fey move. I was surprised by the femininity of it. It was like something a high school cheerleader would come up with. Good job, Robert. Now all you need is a sassy scarf and you win Bitch-of-the-Year.... so all right.
Mum wasn't phased. Uncle Kenny was not pleased, but let it go on her request. I, however, am vengeful. I don't believe funerals should be used for spite. I am smarter and meaner than those inbreds. I have a long memory and a lot of time on my hands. I know something they don't know about their mother and why she was so eager to make peace with my mother the last time they met.
So wait for it.
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You know... I am the first person to admit that I
haven't done much with my life. Any potential I had
was burned up in a firestorm of anger and self-
loathing and left to rot in a desert of inertia and
clinical depression years ago.
The one scintilla of pride I have felt in my life is for
those accomplishments that have been so very
small as to be virtually meaningless, devoid of
genuine relevance and, for all practical purposes,
worth nothing to anyone BUT me. Others seem to
do so much more with what they've been given that
I am truly filled with admiration and envy.
I am a dried husk of a physically and psychically
damaged man with no career, no children, no wife,
no girlfriend, no prospects, no money, no fun,
sparse talent, little love, less hope and few friends.
I have taken some small comfort in my few and far
between fond memories, scattered friendships and
minor accomplishments. ... Read More
I have been petty at times and for that I apologize. I
cannot deny it and it would be foolish to do so. I
offer only this by way of explanation. I entered this
world poor in a variety of ways and continued on
listlessly but inevitably confronted by a wide variety
of obstacles. I've taken mountains of abuse
stoically only to snap at the smallest of further
indignities.
Oddly enough, I am probably proudest of the
occasional bursts of magnanimity I have been able
to offer with what little I have had to share. It's
important to me that I give especially when I have
so little because it makes me feel that much more
generous and closer to the divine spark that exists
buried under our all too selfish humanity. That is
the Indian in me. That is the best part of me. That
is the only thing I ever wish to leave as a legacy. I
have ALMOST nothing but it is mine to share with
an open heart and an open hand.
Game? Oh boys. Boys, boys, boys. Love is no
game. Beaches, fireplaces, castles, fantasy suites
at the Radisson. A guy doesn't need "game" to
make a lady melt. If all the years I've spent in high
school have taught me anything about love it's that
a girl wants more than a few pretty words or a "nice
date" with some wine coolers right before
steaming up the car windows. That way leads only
to regret.
Girls aren't to be toyed with. They are like precious
gems, one of a kind each of them with her own
unique facets and value beyond a quick notation in
your little black books: "Michelle, brunette, OK
personality, dry kisser, father avid gun collector."
To find true love, real passion, you have to be
willing to give up a little part of yourself.
Her name was Misty. My love for her burned me
from the inside out. Every second apart was an
eternity. Every moment together, though bliss, was
fleeting. An hour seemed like a minute.
Then one day, Misty asked me if I really loved her. I
said, yes. But how do I really know, she asked,
you could just be saying that.
Sure I spent money on her. I bought her gifts. We
went for long rides in my sweet 1972 Mustang. We
had picnics at Joslyn Castle and I wrote her poems
(I know, what a pansy). But none of it was proof of
my love, she said. I might just have the greatest
game that she or any other girl had ever seen ...
ever.
I realized she was right. I agonized. How can one
guy show a girl solid proof that his love is real. Isn't
love intangible? Yes, yes it is. You can't hold air in
your hands either, still a candle will go out if
deprived of air.
So using only a serated edge steak knife and the
ink from a Bic pen, I carved Misty's name into my
left forearm then rubbed the ink into my wound
creating a jagged yet perfect symbol, a tattoo,
homemade, proof of my true love.
It worked.
Now THAT'S game, fellas.
I once dropped my ancient copy of Pierre Boulle's "La Planète des Singes" in the john pre-flush. Nothing too nasty got in there. I washed the outside but I had that niggling feeling you are now experiencing. So I put the book in a ziploc bag and microwaved the hell out of it at work. I figured if no one got violently ill, the book was probably OK.
