A new shot is how you asked me to start. To start I might have said, “my end is how I wanted to be known.” Be known the term of 404, like error traffic, not dissimilar to the 405 I drive every day. Which day? The day I started writing, which may end up being the day I ended up ending the writing, because I start with a new one every day yet end at the same starting point. Don’t you? Hopefully not. I’m in one of those question-asking moods where the questions mount and the answers don’t. Anticipate my next question, can you?
Keyboard thievery, I was a victim. When my hands went numb I sensed a problem, but I purchased the necessary software to produce word documents without written words. Rather spoken, as I would rather speak to you, if given the opportunity. The chance was granted the other night, the reason for my call. It was time for a catch-up conversation, eh? In fact, I am chomping Pita Kitchen while I talk, which is why my intended sentence turned out as, “it was dime I carted off for sex,” when I really said, “it was time I carried on about my ex.” This whole technology thing might need an overhaul, but typing words on a screen without the use of manual input or a keyboard is interesting. Basically, just another way to “multi-task” while being less productive, more sidetracked, and far more lazy. Calculators. Now none of our kids know their times tables. Cell phones. Now we can see-saw and never make formal plans because we have the liberty of altering them second by second, never showing up anywhere on time because you can always call “at the time” to say-
“Be there in five minutes.” “But in five minutes I might love another.” Last night I was talking to a San Antonio transplant, out in Los Angeles just for the fame of it, a valid reason, because there is plenty of fame in freeway underpasses and passing of judgment and passing of elders who tried to teach us the right way but erred somewhere. Or perhaps it was not their errs, but their heirs to riches acquired through diligent toil and crackling hands in the soil. You touched any soil recently? My idle hands soiled with chicken and hummus while I speak my garbled talk into the microphone encrusted and rusted by the salt from my perspiration of so many nights which has gotten me now
HERE. Co-worker started a “cuss cup” for me today for my rampant use of words obscene. “A nickel a word”, she said. I went about three hours without a single swear, then pending Mother’s Day plight proved enough for an uncontrollable onslaught comprised of such phrases as “God Bless You,” “Head Blower Shooter Boy,” and “How the heck did this happen for the seven-hundredth day in a row.” For a spouter of such blasphemy, you must appreciate how difficult it is for me to a) edit myself within my writing to fit the parameters of the ever-so politically correct and universally fondled, “Digital Moses Confidential.” Heck, there might be childrenz reading! Childrenzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, what I need. But only the z’s, not the kiddies. High quality father figure I had as a youth, maybe someday I will be perceived the same.
The morning is coming, the morning is coming! Please get some rest as you are fading into eternal atrophy one sleepless night at a time. Ah, well, we’re already here, and I am still talking, but now I am receiving stares. The people under the stares, but aren’t we all? If you do not receive criticism, you are a better man, woman or children than I.
Tormentors! Allow me to Z or forever hold my piece. Peace and quiet within the industry. Not if you give me a say
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