“It’s time!” a voice inside my
head yells.
I try to figure out if it’s
Michael Buffer’s kid brother, the guy your event gets when it wants a cool
introduction, but has a budget of a movie that would have Sid Haig in it in the
1970s, not in the 2000s when Tarantino wannabes made him cool again. Sort of.
Anyway, I sit here every night
wondering when the first tooth is going to just fall out. I’ve been thinking
about that for over three decades now. I think about it a lot more than I used
to. Mostly because that reality is actually a reality now. It used to be some
kind of badge of honor that the chicks dug. “Yeah, I wrecked my bike once,
almost lost all my front teeth,” I’d say. “Ooooh, that’s so cool.” or “You’re
full of shit.” or maybe they’d say nothing because they were now scared or
turned on or just stupid. I really didn’t care because it was rare for me to
get into a conversation with a lady.
But seriously, it is time. Time
for me to make up my mind. Am I going to say fuck it and do it, or am I going
to once again just get by.
Three months and a few days from
now, I’m going to be a dad. That shit is starting to get real. It’s no longer
off on the horizon. It’s speeding up like the Jeepers Creepers dude. And you
either get sewn into the fucking mural or you kill the mother fucker.
How the hell did that go there?
I have too many damn stupid things going on in my head.
It’s why I spend money on ebay
for Weeble Woobles for the damn kid.
He’s going to be playing Atari
2600 at 3 and it’ll be cool. Until his friends show them their cell phones at
5.
Why the hell does a kid need a
smartphone?
Get off my lawn!!!! I will shake
my cane, dammit.
I don’t have a smartphone. I’m
43.
Do I want one? Yeah, sometimes
it would be nice to find out exactly that fucking restaurant is that you drove
400 miles to go eat at, but can’t find it b/c you don’t have a fucking map.
I used to think I could write a
pretty darn good story. Just one story, but a good one. I tried and tried to do
it, but never really fully tried.
I’ve watched awful writers I
know get books published (usually self-published, but fucking a, someone bought
at least one copy). I’ve watched liars and shitheads get great jobs, simply
because they don’t mind lying and being shitheads.
And I keep making excuses.
It’s not fun. At least not as
much.
I don’t drink anymore. It
actually bores me. Unless I’m with friends, but then I’ve got to worry about
saying or doing something stupid.
Yesterday, a fuckhead in a giant
small penis truck wouldn’t get out of the lane. Finally, I got beside him and I
fucking tried to punch the car. At 60 miles per hour.
That’s just dumb.
But funny.
And if you don’t do some of that
bi-polaresque shit, you can’t write about it.
Just like Ben Nichols used to
say “I can’t write the fake shit.”
Well, he writes fake shit now. I
think. I mean, I guess taking it from a book, script or TV show means it ain’t
fake, exactly.
Fuck, it’s all fake and it’s all
not real.
See, see what happens?
I might just quit my job one day
in August. Just leave. Right before my
two-year. Yep that would be a Randy move.
Just like all of them.
Follow your heart, they tell
you. But then they don’t do it.
You do, and you end up making
less at 43 than you made at 33. And less than just about every, single person
you know or knew.
Hell, my dead grandfather
probably still makes more money every year than I do.
Is that possible?
Stop with the fucking Jim
Gaffigan shit.
It stinks.
Hahahahahahaha.
I used to say I didn’t hate
things.
I think that’s true. At least I
hope it’s true.
Hate is waste.
Love isn’t, even if some don’t
believe it’s enough.
Really, though, it’s everything.
We all figure that out one day.
Some earlier than others, some really
late.
Hopefully, some don’t ever
figure it out. They either end up being Wade Boggs or Stan Musial. I hope I don’t
end up as Joe DiMaggio.
No comments:
Post a Comment