Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Time Is A Flat Tire

What happens is I can either lie in bed from 4 a.m. until 6 a.m. thinking about how my prick boss and half the drivers on the Beltway treat me like I'm a paper bag full of old lady germs and cataloging my health problems and insurance bills, or I can write a poem every day of the month of April as part of NaPoWriMo.
It's a ritual. A big, bad, fuck you ritual that ranks somewhere above sitting at my cubicle whistling the merry CeLo song and somewhere below quitting.
All respect, I do love you guys. PJ sez: you're not rid of me. All it ever takes is one word of encouragement. Let us hope that one word is not "regret."
I was going to say, there's nothing stopping you, too, from participating in this ritual, but that's presumptuous of me. For all I know, you could be trapped in an abandoned subway tunnel wearing a Cthulhu hat. But there's the link, if you wanna.
I'm not sure if I can do it. My brain is not functioning like a product of the divine clockmaker these days.
But I'm still running. Whenever I can get the aforementioned motherfucker to stop piling the work on, or when it's not as cold as Appalachia up in here.
Somewhat anticlimactic, no? You were hoping for something more cosmic horror? Next time.
Image: True Det, Bro.