Hola. Miss me? I've been around. Nothing terribly exciting. Bronson's back for a week's leave, which is exciting. With windchill, it's 50 below zero here, which is more horrifying and disgusting than anything. Work is the same. Life is the same. Plod. Plod. Clod.
"If I were royalty, I would want a Biggie and a hundred plain burgers. I would throw away all the buns and lay the burgers side by side on the sidewalk so as to form a bed. I would take off all of my clothes and lie down in the bed with my Biggie. As people passed by, I would say 'Behold the meaty bed of royalty! Behold the final Biggie!' And I would relax there until I was arrested."
Do you ever have days when you just stop. Stop. Look. And you see your life and ask yourself, "Is this it? Is this what I have to show for all these years?" This question is, I suppose rhetorical, as one never answers oneself in such a situation. Still though, shouldn't there be more?
"It is rare for a baby to be so bad that it is sentenced to be hanged, and even rarer for the sentence to be carried out, and yet, when a baby is hung, what a pleasant surprise it is for the passerby. Even the passerby whose arms and legs are bound is able to inch up close enough to the tiny, swaying, villanous nugget of softness and know, with his bare cheeck, the threshold through which real evil sinks away."
That is not to say, of course, that there is nothing in life thus far that has had importance and or significance, but just that it feels highly inadequate. Like only half of us are there, some days one-quarter, two-thirds. Something is missing, and yet, yet, yet, there is something there.
"Today the restaurant was filled with warmth, a spirit of caring. The food was just right and the service was prompt. For the first time this season, snow began to fall. Parents laughed with their children. Handsome employees made witty--but not inconsiderate--remarks. Retired couples were given Extra Value coupons. I felt like getting fucked up and watching t.v. forever."