A Personal Chronicle about the Journey of Life
We are all more than just the sum of our parts, more than the sum of our experience.
Or are we?
I’m not so sure. You see, a Muse has entered my life, and with her came chaos. Glorious emotional chaos, crashing against the stormy shores of my troubled consciousness like great thrashing waves.
I wouldn’t have it any other way. (Except of course – my way. . .)
I feel I have come to a crossroads in my life.
Not ‘the’ crossroads, you understand. Just ‘a’ crossroads. I stress this cause I’m sure, knowing my shit assed luck, there will undoubtedly be many, many more.
This comes after a roller-coaster ride of pain and torment spanning the better part of the last six or seven years. Truth to tell I lost fucking count in all this excitement! It started with the sudden death of my Grandfather Jack Thomas Little from lung cancer that had gone undiagnosed. He’d quit smoking 13 years previous.
And it ended, (or so I thought), four years ago with the untimely demise of my younger brother Mike from – (of all things) – Asthma.
I pretty much watched him die, the life draining out of him as he went hypoxic from blood starved of oxygen. This does things to your psyche. Things that can never be undone, unseen, or sufficiently numbed with alcohol.
(There simply isn’t enough Jack Daniel’s in the world, despite the best efforts of those good folk in Lynchburg Tennessee. . .)
My point is simply this, if ever you wonder what the fuck Monkey is blathering on about. ‘Oh no, not the dead brother thing again!’ – yep, it’s the DEAD BROTHER thing again…
There are those who bemoan the general trend of persons griping about their various mental damage-slash-baggage in this cold life. Everyone seems to have a bigger neurosis than the next guy. Well, I say let ‘em! The stresses of modern living, modern upbringing (for anyone unfortunate to be under 21) and modern relationships have everybody somewhat disturbed or damaged in someway. The widowed, widowered, or just plain bereaved have an additional cross of pain to bare. I don’t give a fuck if the loved one you lost is 21 or 221, it all cuts to the bone the same.
My problem is with the happy-go-lucky-types…
The so-called ranks of the “well adjusted” – Just what the fuck IS that?
I’ll share my interpretation with you: someone with their head permanently planted up their own ass! A mongoloid who prefers to drift through it’s life in a torpor, not truly connecting with anything enough to smell it’s vile stench or be spellbound by it’s beauty. You know who I mean: the asshole who asks how you are, then stiffens visibly when you dare to reply ‘well, actually, not so good.’ The irritating motherfuckers who don’t want to hear about the downside of life.
Look around fuckheads, I say to these people and their ilk. Life is becoming more and more about the downside. These guys and gals took names at school when the teacher was absent, read the newspapers without so much as a frown or worry, watch the news for updates on reality TV only and blindly assume all politicians are straight up honourable men and women. The smirking wickprick who tells you “it could be worse” and to cheer up it might never happen. What might never happen, exactly? No, really, I’d like to know. I pity any realistic person forced to live with such a clueless potato head in their midst. Damaged people are more in tune with life than the smiling assclowns will EVER be, want to know why?
Because: the cynic is NEVER surprised. The pessimist is NEVER disappointed, and the paranoid is the one in possession of ALL the facts. . .
Well adjusted? - I don’t even know what the fuck that means. . .
[Ed. Whew! - BUMMER. Talk about a rough month. I'm sorry to hear this Monkey, TRY to cheer up...] as for the rest of you, FUCK OFF!!