Feeling much better tonight—not so manic. I’ve made it through the better part of Season Six of The Simpsons, and I’ve watched Sin City an average of three times, I guess. Also, I only got out of bed like three times, so I’m feeling pretty lethargic at this point. Or, as I like to call it—back to normal.
Work tomorrow, though, dammit. I would be a great leech, I’ve decided. Not literally, of course—I don’t like people enough to hang out with ‘em all the time, even if it is my life-source. I meant in a figurative kind of way, like if I could just hang around, and have someone pay for everything and give me whatever I wanted. Sometimes I wonder how much I would give up for this sort of lifestyle.
I mean, like if someone was like, “Okay, I’ll give you whatever you want, you’ll never have to work another day in your life, but you can’t eat catfish.”
No problem—seafood makes me vomit, anyways. Here’s another scenario, this one not so pleasant: “Okay, I’ll give you whatever you want, you’ll never have to work another day in your life, but you have to work out every day. Not a hard workout, but still. Maybe like fifty sit-ups, fifty push-ups. They don’t have to be done all at the same time, but they have to be done each and every day.”
I would do that, no problem. I need to lose the weight, anyways. And then my imagination has to start ruining the fantasy:
“Okay, I’ll give you whatever you want, you’ll never have to work another day in your life, but no more tacos…ever.”
“Wait. What? Did you say no more tacos?”
“Ever. Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But why? I mean, what do you have against tacos? Tacos are our friends—they love us, they nurture us, they feed us!”
“I had a bad experience. No tacos, that’s the rule.”
“No tacos. But I can do anything else?”
“I don’t have to exercise?”
“What if you catch me in bed with your mom?”
“She needs it.”
“I, uh. Well, I would prefer you don’t sleep with my wife, of course-”
“But it’s not forbidden, like tacos?”
“No, not forbidden, per se-”
“I’m in! Hey, where’s your wife at, anyways?”
Yeah, no tacos really sucks, but what if it got worse?
“Okay, I’ll give you whatever you want, you’ll never have to work another day in your life, but you have to eat a raw walrus testicle every day. Just one.”
“But I get tacos?”
“Yes, and you get to nail my wife…again.”
“Can I cook the testicle?”
“Shit. Okay, I’m in, I guess.”
But it gets worse:
…you know what? I’ve got to break this up.
Sorry, Strangelanders. I know you were all intrigued, wondering where I was going with this, but I just have to stop. The thing is, I downloaded The Gambler by Kenny Rogers just a minute ago.
I didn’t really have a reason for it—I actually detest country music, if you want to know the truth. But this song…
I don’t know, man. Download it. Download it right now. Or go buy the Cd, if that’s more your thing. Just listen to it, just once. What a great thing, this song.
Kenny Rogers, with his scratchy voice, singing about this old gambler on a train, trading whiskey for secrets. I don’t know, man—it’s just perfect.
So it ended just now, and the spell is broken. That was sort of weird.
The question is, do I try to pick up the thread of my tale, do I try to recapture the guy that’s offering me a free ride forever if I only sacrifice, or do I just let it go?
Let it go, it seems like. Man, I kind of just want to pack a few things in a bag and hit the road, trying to make my way as a lonely gambler for the rest of my life—my only being my stone-hard face, scratchy voice, and taste for whiskey.