Thursday, April 12, 2001

If I Live to Be the Pungent Age of 37

Mona who fishes on his desk with a chipped ear and meaningful demeanor is a constant reminder of the ONE he has truly loved over the passing years. He won't forget that as much as he has refused and taken for granted his blessing.

He used to wake up after another restless and fruitless and listless and pointless night of sleep wondering if this was the day he was finally going to stand up and lie down and say, "NO MORE!" (Extra Exclamation POINT added for emphasis.) He would drive to the parking lot behind the Lutheran version of the Catholic green soon to be sold out gold cathedral and not risk his life by crossing University but rather travel the haunted tunnels which brought to his feeble mind the memories of a previous session (an ironic use of the word) when he would rush home to his Mom knowing the days were dwindling.

The halls echoed with a bustle of those who thought they were making a difference. Truth be told, if such a cliche appeals, is that the self importance was a justification for a severe lack of self esteem that for once he didn't share. He was the one who shared too much too often and it had taken its toll. The chair of the all powerful tax committee took a swing. Though it hit it didn't hurt so much as caught him off guard. His favorite Timberwolve was an off guard named the late great Malik.

Nip it in the bud for a dress code. Replace the sleep with a jolt of caffeine. A process of brewing homemade lattes every morning past seven. Masses who read innocuously and who understood better than he ever could. The green belted kick boxing Jezebel who tried to judge the merits of pending legislation amused him with her desire to do such a good job. Where did that part of him once exist?

He watched everyone's favorite pencil thinned mustache Oscar winner sing the most important song of the millennium about reaching a point in LIFE when one wants to care but can't seem to find any reason TO. TWO? Worried man vs. I'm a worried man with a worried mind. Makes a difference or two. TOO? Also? But if you have a worried mind doesn't that inherently mean you care on some subterranean level? You tell me? I'm of a generous heart despite the antagonism.

He dragged himself to, or stepped himself up to the signed out room and heard another measure that wasn't measured by its merits but rather by its chances (a big kickboxing discord). He didn't understand not that he ever did. Transit levy, lost in the flood. Sandbagging, reliance to an extent no one else has in mind.

A continuation of a hearing (he once had a ringing in his ear that his Mom brought him in for tests and medicinal drops and a lack of balance that made him curl up and wanna die on the high school boy's room floor) that he knew his neutrality might be questioned. Not that it should because he was one whose dispassionateness wasn't an issue; it wasn't so much he didn't have strong opinions as much as it was he had fetid sentiments about just about everything. It wasn't as if he was living in an undecided gray sea area but rather he was constantly oscillating between black and white. Carry and conceal or coral? Why not holster up and Wyatt Earp one's visually potential danger? Let's be up front and honest and nothing else one might argue to those who see it as a public "safety" issue.

So on the day when they tabled things and prevented an emotional albeit misunderstood diversion of starving school kids he was glad he didn't have to work past his involuntary metiers. Instead he hustled himself down to the bubble where he was joined by a professional outcast and the divine carrying one and her weary domestic partner to watch the local lads crush the opposition as powerfully as those that view a new workplace as obscene as those who gave up long ago and couldn't fall any less (or more).

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