Crack Baloom to you! And loom to the harmless homeless! We will all live together and like it. If I travel deep beneath the radar of spell-check and common man, perhaps then things will come together properly. She will begin to adhere to my rants, and the arms of the ceiling fan will cease to disrupt the dusty-gray cobwebs on my white stucco ceiling. I used to lay on my carpet and stare upward, conjuring up images with my eyes and my mind that may or may not have been there. Through random sequences of infrastructure, actual pictures may have been developed, so I am not yet willing to admit that I imagined everything that I saw. A full-scale Cowboys-and-Indians battle, a man being hung by the executioner while the village watched and applauded at the thief’s demise, and waves rolling onto the shore, nearly brushing the beach home; that was only some of the magic. This is within the constraints of my head; I do nothing to impress my foolish ideas onto you. Just because we are all stuck here in the middle-ground does not mean we cannot enjoy ourselves. If I gave you the choice to revert, you probably would not take it. And no one in the land would grasp the opportunity to accelerate their life to the latter stage. What that means is wash yourself of the middle-ground strife and sins and start acting as you know you should. I do not need your hallucinogens or chemical compounds! If I wanted a real rush, I would take an Excedrin PM so that I could suffer another seizure followed by temporary paralysis. That may sound silly. You may label me an embellisher of viable content. Yet I am not a viable content embellisher. Nor am I not viably content. Maybe I am on days like today that consist of watching baseball with friends and playing in pools with 6 year-olds who ask me if I am their uncle and say things like, “I am the nutcracker, so what are you getting me for my birthday?” What will I get him for his birthday? He yells and moons guests and acts the frenzy. Punches and bites and speaks insightful words of garble. Yet I can’t even get away with making up a couple of words.
I actually just found out this week that clients of mine, members of the PTA, and rationale citizens at large actually read these weekly entries. For that reason, you may have noticed an emergence of tame topics and a lack of course language or sexual under/over/middle tones. That’s probably the way to go, I don’t want my friends at DM to get in trouble, after all. When I really start to lose my audience after months of industry or general day-by-day malaise drivel, maybe then I’ll ramp it up and hit you with something off-cute to peak your carnal interest and bring you back into my scene. This whole thing isn’t about growing up. Life, that is. I mean, it is about growing up, but it shouldn’t be. It is permissible for the behavior of children to be what the general populous of adults would consider “insane.” Insane in that if a person of fully-grown stature behaved or spoke in a similar manner, they would be considered crazy, or mental, or perhaps even a mentallytastic langpalowmee rondoptious crack baloom. The dumb part about it is that we act insane when we’re young, and insane when we’re old, and while we’re out of our formative years and prior to our incoherent years, we slight and short and ruin other people. And that when we are allegedly at our most “developed.” Our most “sane.” Our most “grown up” and “in tune” and “with it,” and “f that,” I exclaim. Children and the elderly don’t slight and short and ruin people, so why should we? The true cynic would cite that human nature is to degrade our fellow man in order for our own personal gain, yet it may not be an innate way of thinking, just a way developed while living out in the world and seeing the things that we are objected to seeing. That is why the underdeveloped brain and psyche of a 6-year-old, and the overexposed and rotting brain of an 86 year-old cannot reach far enough to grasp the concept of contaminating their surroundings with imposed tragedy. I’ve been to plenty of rest homes, so I’ve seen the jockeying for Jell-O, the attempts at attention, ordering of orderlies. But despite the air of bitterness, defeat and loss, you do not look around those spots and say, “everyone here sure treats others poorly.” When I filled my glass full and began to drink, the taste was distinctly soapy. I gagged and poured the Kool-Aid out until it was empty once again. At the point where you can fabricate words to throw people off their normal course of action, try to confuse your loved ones by saying, “you just don’t understand” and engaging in adult tantrums of solitude, that’s when you’re really an adult. Those silent tantrums are the ones that get me, not the gritty, grinding, clamoring variety. It’s time for me to abandon the good lie in favor of living the bad truth. Bring on the kids and bring on the elderly, I do not want to deal with young or middle-age adults anymore. The children and geriatrics are far more advanced in their thinking then we are. Their reason is stuck in an infantile state, but it’s better that way. If something isn’t right, they complain, and if they’re having a good time, you’ll know it. No guess work, no tippy-toes, no worries. You tell them what to do and they either do it or they are outright defiant. Throw some more outright defiance my way. This round-a-bout carousel of teeth-grinning donkeys is too much for this ole’ boy, and I’ve been nauseous for years with the futile marry-go-round, complacency of feeling and gummy state that you impress upon me.
Bryan May
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