Hey man, what's up, what's goin' on? What, as they say, are the haps?
You don't know and neither do I, and as much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, the truth is glaring, like a spotlight on criminals who would love to escape. Busted, and when the light hits your eye, it’s a reflection of loss, and it's life lived in a cage.
Let’s you and I rage, shall we?
We shall don our banquet dresses and bustles; our monocles and top hats, and our finest patent leather shoes, so black and so shiny that you’d swear the reflections you see are other worlds, hidden under a sheen of light. We shall dress ourselves in our most extravagant, and we shall go out to enjoy the night.
Howl at the moon, and shred the clothing, and listen as the night sings to us—it only beckons a selected few, and if you’re breathing too deep the scents of sanity, you will more than likely miss it. We will tromp through the mud and we will bite without provocation, and we will laugh our laughter that sounds like haunted nightmares.
We will scare civilization as much as it scares us.
We will terrorize the polite and educate the rude, and we will live.
Live with me!
The anticipation of gifts unwrapped turns from novelty to waste so fast, and to indulge in procrastination of happiness is the ultimate sin.
LET US RAGE!
Each and every heartbeat could be your last, and although none of us choose to believe that, it’s a truth that needs no realization. Death stalks languidly behind the scenes, and when you ask him does he like his job, he shrugs, like the pelican on The Flintstones, and mutters, “Eh, it’s a living.”
Because Death hates his job just as much as everybody else, only there’s no final release for him, at the end. You know what Death wanted to do for a living?
He wanted to make the best damn tacos in the world, and he wanted to travel from continent to continent in his taco truck, and people would trudge mile upon mile to sample his delectable goods. He would go on talk shows to discuss life in the taco biz, and he would make cameos in movies as the taco guy. He even had a name picked out.
You want to know what it was? The name that Death chose for his taco stand? Of course you do. Because to not want to know the name of Death’s taco stand is madness, and madness is judged harshly ‘round these parts.
That was the name. Not perfect, maybe, but it was the dream.
But instead, Death is just that guy who walks around collecting souls or whatever. He’s good at it, but what the hell, you know? His black heart just isn’t into it.
Time is running out, and anybody can avoid happiness if they pay too much attention to everything else.
posted on...what the hell day is it, anyway?