It has been a long time since I sat to write something and just froze. I've heard a lot of writers talk about dancing on the keys, the song of the keys, rhythms of the keys, but all of this is junk. There is no magical song in the keys. The song is in the head so if the head is in a bad spot or worse on pause there will be no harmony. My head is in a bad place. This is what I get for not writing on my own work before reading someone else's. A bad choice. I meant to write about what a cesspit the Trenton Taco Bell is but I'm not going to do that anymore. Those unorganized individuals mean nothing to me in light of the two things I just found out because I read before I wrote.
When you reach your mid-thirties something fucked up happens. People you care about begin to expire. Not die, exactly, but expire, like dairy products. We all have a date stamped on us, one we cannot see, and when it comes around, that's just that. By the time a person is thirty-five or so their parents are reaching the golden years, their grandparents are probably dead (region has a little to do with this--here in the south I've met 37 year old grandparents) and a handful of the people they grew up with are dead from either an accident or bad cards. It's just time. The blank, smooth stone face of time, neither smiling or frowning, merely existing on a plane of absolute zero. Moving without moving. Killing indiscriminately.
My grandmother died last year. My mother tore an artery in her neck last year. My best friend, really the one person who has endured the most ruthless and vile and elated moments of my life, fits of pique, temper, bile, laughing, chicanery, anything I in my lunacy could toss at him is now suffering from pancreatitis. Going the way of Bill Hicks. And right as soon as he started to taste success. I've always referred to God as The Comic in the Sky, and if this isn't divine humor I don't know what is. I'm talking about someone who has followed every rule of society where I have held every rule in disdain, stayed drug-free where I have ingested every fucking substance in the book, enough to make William S. Burroughs proud, saved every possible penny, paid every debt, respected where I have scorned, been my polar opposite, this fucking guy is dying and I am in perfect health. I don't have so much as a bad tooth. Touch of gingivitis.
I've been stabbed, shot at, beaten, jailed, poisoned myself in every way and John Bruni hasn't done a single bit of that shit but I barely have arthritis. I felt shitty two days ago because I had stomach flu, but I'm all better now. He gets a touch of the stomach flu and it turns out to be a rotten pancreas as stiff as the fucking Blarney Stone on a hot August night. I should be dead, probably in many sets of eyes don't deserve to live but this cat is the one lying on a hospital bed pumped full of Dilaudid. And he'd just paid off his student loans. I didn't even start giving a shit about mine until they ate my taxes this year. Though this isn't funny to me and I doubt it is funny to any of you I'm sure it is hilarious to the Big Bastard in the Sky. Seems to fit.
So, kids, it just goes to show, if you stay away from cigarettes, drugs, alcohol (mostly) and loose women, eat all your lima beans, go to school on time, finish all of your homework, honor thy mother and father (or thy grandparents, as it might be) it still won't mean a goddamn fucking thing because when your genetic code decides to break down on you that's just it and all this social nonsense about right and wrong amounts to a grand total of fuck all. If you won't take it from me and Bruni, take it from Nietzsche. Every college respects him.
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