43

I don't feel like doing anything. Is it the fact that I will be 70 at the end of the year that I don't want to do anything other than lie in bed, read and surf the internet? I should elect the opposite mentality with my time running short. I should be busy with my many pursuits before I'm sucked into the black hole of death.

I don't want to write. I don't want to exercise. I don't want to hit tennis balls. I don't want to play the guitar. I don't want to do anything but contemplate the sadness that is the essence of our existences.

I observe people going about their business as if they were going to live forever and I want to shout, "You are doomed, buffoons! You will soon disappear and those who might keep your memory alive will disappear shortly thereafter."

I walk among humanity and I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of anonymity. Not that I desire fortune nor fame. A good fuck suffices. Wining and dining bring a brief relief from the impending grief. My young son and his idealistic delusions and illusions keep me anchored.

There is the life force that keeps one forging forward, but there is something wrong with dreams when reality is filled with terror.

Must be time for a Xanax. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

6

L ike a hound pointing to its game, the Spring Breaker followed his boner to his condo with the blond co-ed in tow. She had stepped up to the beer bong thrice and could barely walk. He led her into his room and stripped her of her thong as if he were peeling a banana. He was soon straddling her when he stopped an inch short of entering her shaved pussy. "I must confess something," he said. "What?" she slurred. "I have tested positive for HIV." "Have you tested positive for Coronavirus?" she asked. "No." "Then let's fuck, cowboy!!!" 
Read more

5

I was standing at the bar at Cobbleheads when I saw owner Joe Kenney walking past. I grabbed him by the bicep. "Pretty flabby for a guy from Phillly," I said. "Fuck you, Sully," snapped Joe before continuing with that goofy accent. "What do you want?" "I didn't get a chance to wish you Happy St. Patrick's Day! I'd pinch you on the butt since you're not wearing green, but you have a lousy lookin' ass. Let's toast the San Patricio Battalion." "A bunch of filthy traitors," spat Joe. "General Scott should have hung all the bastards instead of branding the majority of them." "You were in the Herald saying that Mexico and the United States had special ties as a result of these Irishmen switching sides in a war that Abraham Lincoln criticized as imperialism run amok." "It's all about business," confessed Joe. "I can't express my true sentiments about those Benedict Arnolds. I h...
Read more

1

My patio faces east. In the early afternoon the sun has embarked on its ancient descent toward the west and I relax on my lawn chair in the shade. I breathe deeply. My lungs are clear. Coronavirus has me contemplating life from a variety of angles. I am led to believe that those who suffer death from the disease suffocate. That doesn't sound like a pleasant exit to me. As a result of this grim reality, I have quit smoking dope. I don't want to weaken my lungs any more than 55 years of puffing on joints has wreaked on them. I have been retired for three years from the BISD after the superintendent threatened to fire me if I kept writing. I chose to keep writing. It is my spiritual calling. I had contributed 39 years to the school district and I was working for free. Retirement was a logical option. I don't miss the job, but I do miss my students, athletes and colleagues. I liken my present existence to floating down a lazy Hill Country river in an inner tube. Little did I kn...
Read more