I was examining my eyelashes in the mirror and what I came to realize is not everything can be rectified while just about anything can be shaved or sculpted to fit the narrative.
I stare out the window waiting for either God or Sidney Poitier when the best that appears is Tracy and Hepburn bickering like only they could.
It doesn’t look like the madness is going to stop anytime soon so perhaps its best we call it quits and not even attempt making anything better or at the very least tolerable for each other.
Thirty lashes because I said I was Spartacus. I figured everyone else was doing it so why not give it a go and see where notoriety and a slave rebellion get me.
In the middle of the night I’ll sometimes pretend I’m writing jokes for Jack Parr and that any problem can be solved with great Jewish deli and a bloody-minded resolve.
We swallow tyranny whole and shoot belligerence out of our asses like an imperfect storm of flatulence and stoicism.
I tend to seek out people who give me the benefit of the doubt especially when both our backs are up against the wall and the odds of either one of us surviving are slim to none.
I wanted to get next to you even before I saw your picture in the yearbook because I knew we were cut from the same cloth and that cloth was holy and irreversible.
I was applying hemorrhoid ointment on my rectum and it got me thinking how we’re all human and that any passing wind at any given moment could blow us apart like shivering timbers.