Friday, June 26, 2015
the apocalypse in 2030
So you became middle-aged. You got a divorce and then realized you were gay. You spill gasoline on your shoes everytime, and the paperboy throws the morning news in the azalias. Everytime. People don't try to make eye contact with you until you've got the entire tip of your finger in your nose, hunting munsters, as it were. Your children use you as a free ATM and the ex runs you down on facebook, how she ruined you for the other team, that you're hung-up on her and yadda yadda. You think about Arnold, what he did in his private life, how some lady did his laundry, and the sheer potency of Arnold from his dirty clothes made her pregnant. You think maybe you will go safari on the paperboy, that little go**amn sonofab**ch. You think, prisoners get free medical, probably beats medicare, and thats what you're looking forward to: the little card and the lady at the window making a copy with a blush on her face because she thinks you're a loser. A retired loser. And you want a silver plan, but you can't afford the silver plan, so you have to make do, becoming familiar with the hospital business office employees, not like you do with friends, but like those people are the school disciplinarians, and you're the class clown. Maybe you wanna buy a Miata and cruise for gay cowboy types at the KFC, where you fake a knowledge of horses and agriculture. You talk acreage yields and equastrian diet, nodding and smiling like a loon, over Original Recipe; you silently hope your gaydar is right, and the cowboy type doesn't beat you to death in the parking lot when you try to hold his hand. Maybe you're just lonely, you think, driving away from the KFC with a bloody lip and a footprint on the front of your shirt.