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But Enough...Enough by Ray Printer Friendly

Hey kids,

I’m sure you’re all waiting anxiously to see how I’m doing at this whole waking-up-too-damn-early thing that I’ve been doing. Not well. It’s stripping my sanity like cocaine strips the inside of a junkie’s nose, or the way flame strips the happiness out of a child’s toy chest. It’s wrecking me physically and mentally, and I’m pretty sure emotionally, too—because it’s not natural to start crying while watching Oprah, right? Oh, wait, scratch that last one.

I always cry when I see Oprah on TV because I think it’s so terrible that some evil android like that gets to be super-rich and popular while I’m stuck working retail, and I have to deal with the wake of her madness every time that any female I know watches her stupid show. I forgot. Freaking Oprah, I will expose you as the evil government-funded robot that you are…mark my words. Some day, evil doer.

Anyways, so yeah, other than the Oprah thing, I’m not doing too good at all. I have a stabbing hurt in my head that makes me think that my brain is trying to climb out from behind my right eyeball. It’s really painful, and then you have the imagery to deal with, which is rather unpleasant, as well. I feel my intelligence level decreasing, kind of like that story Flowers For Algernon, and I’m afraid that like the man in the story, I’ll soon be another useless bonehead—practically a retail customer—unable to function as a regular person.

But enough about that…


It’s weird—usually I sit around, trying to come up with something to write. Tonight, though, I kind of have my pick. Lots of weird thoughts going through my head, alls I have to do is pluck one and bend it to my will.

You ever have one of those days that seems to be going along so well, and then—for no apparent whatsoever—it just crashes? Like everything’s fine and good, you’re doing your thing, and maybe things aren’t super, but they’re fine. And then there’s just a subtle shift. Maybe it’s in your head, maybe it’s in the world, but whatever it is, things just aren’t so good anymore. I hate it when that happens.

But enough about that…


I had this stuffed bear when I was little, I carried it all over the place, slept with it at night, talked to it—all that crap you see kids do in movies and it seems all endearing and cute, but in real life it’s a little creepy and unsettling. I had that bear until I was like nineteen years old (don’t worry, I had pretty much stopped talking to him by then), and then I gave him to a girlfriend. I’m not really sure why I did that. I remember she was about to go back home (she lived a couple hours away, and came to visit on the weekends), and she was crying. I grabbed the bear out of the closet and told her to hold onto it for me. We ended up breaking up not too long after that, and she never gave me back the bear. It’s too bad, really. I miss that guy. The girl was a lunatic, though, and hopefully she’s been locked up by now.

But enough about that…


One thing I don’t like about movies is where they have some super-attractive guy running around, doing all kinds of cool stuff: jumping off of houses to save the girl, kicking ass like it’s an Olympic event, always looking cool and never accidentally farting when he’s nervous. And then I walk out of the theater, I look at my huge gut, my dumpy clothes, and listen to my lungs wheeze because I just walked twenty feet without taking a rest, and I realize that I’m never going to be that guy. I’ve got bad vision, black lungs, and a lame heart, not to mention about thirty pounds of belly jelly hanging over my pants.

If I was in an action movie, I would be the innocent bystander that catches a bullet in the head because his reflexes are so bad that he’s the only person standing when the bad guys start shooting. Everyone else is on the floor, duck and cover yo, and there I am, looking around to see what’s going on. BAM! Shithead.

This is why they should make a Portly Boy movie, man—so regular screw-ups like me can feel good when they leave a theater: “Yeah, I suck, but at least I’m not that guy.” And then maybe it would suddenly be cool to be a fat smoker with a bad attitude, and I would be a ruler of men. And then I’d slack in my duties, probably start a war on accident, and blow up half the planet. Oops.

But enough about that…


After a slurry conversation with Trey, I’ve wondered if The Strangelands has become too negative. Am I too cynical, too jaded? To prove to myself that I am not, I try to conjure up an image of happiness…In my mind, I see Santa as an anorexic, dreading Christmas because of all the milk and cookies. They tempt him, tempt him, and tempt him. Visions of sugar plums are his personal hell, and at the end of The Eve, he’s huddled out in the reindeer stalls, crying near a pile of Rudolf poop because he broke down somewhere around Davey Smith’s house, and gobbled an entire plate of sugar cookies.

I find myself cheering for the bad guys during movies, I find myself agreeing with the no-brain slobs on daytime talk shows—the ones that the crowd boos, and I cheer when they save Darth Vader on that planet of lava. And I think that Yoda is a punk-ass.

Too cynical? Perhaps. Maybe I’m just a villain. I remember writing a paper in fifth grade, it was one of those stupid what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up things, and I wrote that I wanted to be a sniper.

My step-dad took me aside, he explained to me that snipers were the guys who hung out on rooftops and shot people. Bad guys. Then he explained to me the virtues of being on a SWAT team. Same job, essentially, but you get body armor, and you get to grapple down the side of a building to catch the bad guy. The grappling down buildings seemed really cool, but I stuck with my original answer: sniper. Good money, make your own schedule, what could be better? Besides, if you’re SWAT, there’s already someone there with a gun. He knows you’re coming for him. Being the bad guy, you kind of have a one up on the other guy, because he isn’t expecting you to be there.

But enough about that…

I think of my princess, and I smile.


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