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Bleak Winter Day by Ray Printer Friendly

ďBeen around the world and found that only stupid people are breeding.Ē

ÖÖHarvey Danger

Oh, man. Four in the morning, man, I still donít want to go to bed. I should, and I know this. ButÖ

Cold metal touching me everywhere, I donít know where to look to see where things have gone wrong. Thumb-tacks pointing, accusing. The walls are laughing at me, Iíve trained them well.

Have to keep going, or itís all lost. Fell asleep early tonight, woke up, my brain is hurting because I spend more time at work than I spend thinking. CanítÖWONíT waste my real life, even if it means I have to feel terrible most of the time. Whatís the point of being healthy at a job you hate? Why not be tired, exhausted? You wonít like it anyways. Excited because I found out that if you use the handicap-accessible sink in the bathroom, you actually have water pressure and hot water, how depressing is that?

I get home, I watch the sun sink, watch it die itís slow death, sometimes beautiful, sometimes just tragic.

Do people generally consider Eskimos as Native Americans?

Thinking just a little about my past. Not a nice brain-movie to watch, Iíll tell you that. I think about my hometown. Itís a place of soap operas, a place of urban legends. You get to go to school with the guy who has his eyes swelled shut because of some weird shit he picked up in a strip club. You know the girl who got busted with the dog and the peanut butter. There was a crazy old man that would only wear his raincoat when the sun was shining. ďAny fool can wear a raincoat when itís raining,Ē he said. ďBut it takes a true genius to wear a rain coat when the sun is out.Ē And you know what? That lunatic may have been right.

Too much drama. If youíre not some guy thatís getting cheated on by his wife, then youíre the wife thatís doing the cheating. Spousal abuse, men beating their wives, killing themselves. Drug-addled teenagers shooting themselves in the face. Fires.

As Mr. Rogers asks, ďWonít you be my neighbor?Ē

Cop killer on death row, he killed himself a couple weeks ago.

Whoís pregnant? Who isnít, thatís the question. Want to know about love? Want to know about drugged-out, boozed-up, stuck-in-Purgatory love? Who knows about this kind of thing?

I used to, maybe. I used to know a lot of things, maybe. But not so much anymore. Once you start to really know people, thatís when they start killing you. Itís better to say hi, to nod your head, to give them a thumbs-up, whatever. But you donít want to know them, because thatís when you get covered in the same ick-sticky nastiness that is dragging them down. Thatís when you sink, no matter how bright or dark your future is.

I have my friends, not as many as I used to have. And Iíll try my damndest to pull them from the ooze. The rest? Sink or swim, baby: Iím not your lifeguard. I barely have enough energy to pull myself out of bed every dayóI wonít be responsible for your well being, too.

Life is hard. I think everyone old enough to read this knows that.

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Two glass eyes, looking, but never seeing. Now what?

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.

Written the sun into the ground and back up again, the clouds weep for me, but I donít need their tears. Smoke-filled head, canít remember what Iíve tasted, but Iíll always remember the smells. I donít know how anything feels except for the way my fingers dance over the keyboard, telling me things I should never know.

The cold, cold morning. Showering, hoping that it will warm me up, knowing that it will not. Walking, the air in front of me so cold that itís like walking through a soft wall and coming out the other side broken.

Keys.

Driving, stopping on the outskirts of town, talking. Sir. Thatís his name, and I have never told him how much he raised me. Values incorporated, lessons learned, all thanks to some guy, some guy that was intelligent, calm, real, and I admired itÖadmired him. Never told him, though, because thatís not how we do things in Texas.

On the road, slipping, all over the place and wondering what will happen if I canít slide off the road fast enough, what happens if that sixteen-wheeler hits me before I end up in the ditch? Doesnít matter: in the ditch, I didnít get pasted, take your foot off the brake, turn the wheel, driving again.

Back to town, safe roads, no slippage, delivering papers, going place to place, nervous because I never realized there was more to the world than my hometown. None of this matters, in retrospect. Only the talking, only the fun: thatís what matters. The rest of it is bullshit.

So scared, until I realized that there is nothing to afraid of.

I am not afraid.

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I am not afraid.


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