Maybe I'm just in a bad mood this evening, maybe it'll get better, maybe I'll
find myself living like the heads in the commercials any day now. Maybe not. I
was just thinking about how many things in my life are shitty. Not
dissatisfying. Not broken. Not shitty like Fresno in July. Shitty like
literally coated in some varying level of fecal residue. Watching that fine
specimen of womanhood run her hands alluringly down her neck and across that
happy place between her breasts, and all I can think of is a smear of tiny
pieces of dung that scream out their presence in day-glo Newsweek headlines.
I watched a small child gnaw on the edge of the counter at a local pharmacy earlier today
while we were both waiting for his guardian to finish her transaction and he
was certainly getting his Recommended Daily Allowance of any number of
pathogens and interesting substances. What it all comes down to is it doesn't
matter how many times Doc washed his hands this week before he started scooping
out your appendix, he still wipes his ass with them everyday. We're all
attached not by Love or Sharing or Common Goals, although those are all nice
things, but by shit. Shit and neurosis. Time for my contribution.