I stood there in the street, in the dark of a 7 A.M. winter's morn, shrugged my shoulders, unlocked the car door and headed to work. It was a Monday, January the second. The holidays were now just a vague blur of strange places, blinding headlights, bad food, excessive drink, conversations held at levels approaching screaming and images of children's faces, pouting their disappointment, smeared with chocolate and turkey grease, their hair matted with candy canes and mashed potatoes, looking at me with their teary eyes, trying to communicate, "It's not enough, Daddy! It's not enough!"
"Sometimes I want to pull my brain stem out!" My car radio blasted out one of my favorite Henry Rollins songs. Who's life am I living? A woman's voice is haunting me. "Maybe we should just get burgers for dinner, Honey!" I scream aloud, Tourette's style, "Burgers?! I've got your burgers right freakin' here!" I am morphing into a strange cross between Jack Nicholson in The Shining and Chris Farley as Matt Foley, motivational speaker.
"Let the shovel do the work!" The red-faced know-it-all said and flashed his tiny corn teeth at me, then went back into the house. "I've got your shovel right here, pal!" I said, then spinning like a dervish, I released it right into and through the bastard's front window. I casually picked up my jacket and started walking. I will walk until I reach the ocean and then I will just keep on walking. Somewhere around day 33 I finally fell to the ground.
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Your postings are like food--some are mild, some are spicy. Some slide right down like sweet cream, some need to be chewed thoroughly. Sometimes I'm not quite sure what I've eaten, but I always leave the table with a full belly!
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