I dented the front of my grandpa's Prius. Last week, I backed into a hill and popped off some sort of fender. He wasn't mad either time. Said he has insurance. I asked him why he wasn't mad. He said, "Why should I be? Do you want me to yell at you?" Oh, the things I get away with. Everything, but that toilet in junior year. Can't do no wrong, not me. Yell at me? It would make me feel better. Just a little.
Down the street the police installed a little speed monitoring board. I think it was put there because of me, narcissitic as that is. What's the name of that emotion? Where you think things are for you because they are presented that way. When someone writes an angry, anonymous blog you automatically think it's about you. It's probably not, but can you ever help thinking that? What am I supposed to do, guess?
The board doesn't take your picture or anything. In fact, there are so few security cameras around here that it was a relief seeing them in a CVS. It would take me a thirty minute drive to find that particular pharmacy again, but going inside was the only breath of normal I've felt since leaving Sky Harbor. I really don't like that about myself. I'm so molded by consumerism, even though I'm mostly against it.
Took work off. I helped move furniture with my grandpa today. Some Keystone Cops moments. Busted a lamp or two. Paint spatters on clothing. He painted the living room for this old cat lady. Her house smells like cigarette smoke, not the good, fresh kind. Cheap cigs. Cat hair and kitty litter and old lady. The weirdness of it all. Why she tapes doors shut. Why she ties lighters to everything. Why she taped a letter about mammograms to the wall. Why she collects spent Dunkin' Donuts coffee cups and uses them as insulation. May I never be so old my brain rots inside my skull, like molded bananas. I've seen this happen to almost every old person I know. I would rather fall down a staircase like ol' whatshisname. Maybe he didn't fall anyway.
I went to Bible study. Me and Rhonda got sidetracked from discussing the existence of God to why and how America is a "Christian Nation" and whatnot. We started arguing over the concept of the Iraq Invasion. I was explaining simple economics to her. When there is more demand than supply, price goes up. When you invade a country that has oil, supply goes down, demand goes up, therefore high gas prices. When you are investing in oil companies, like Bush and co. are, you have damn good reason to invade, because you will make a profit (Exxon made more money in a single quarter than any other company in history). Rhonda asked for proof. Motive. The smoking gun.
In a way, I feel bad that the discussion sidetracked. I have a way of doing that. . . Rhonda said she had a headache and wasn't up to arguing with me because of it. But she complimented me, saying I go right for it. Relentless. I smiled. Whatever.
So I went home and did some research. A lot of people claim Al-Qaeda had no reason to attack the U.S. but if you look back, we've been over in the Middle East since at least the '80s. Shooting down their civilian planes and trying to pay them off? Why wouldn't Muslim extremists be pissed and want retaliation?
It's a pretty disgusting part of history. Trench warfare, human waves and mustard gas. Never learned about this in high school. Wonder why. I got myself on a tangent about the mustard gas of course. The mutagenic, carcinogenic horror of it all. And my sick fascination with it.
It was rainy today, like yesterday, but I've been enjoying it. I love how the wet brings out all the color in everything. The road is black, real black. The trees, real green. Mud, real brown. The sky is the exception, some bleak gray slate, sometimes completely blank. The sky is oblivion. Like a wet water color portrait, every where I go, I track some of the bleeding colors with me. The light stretches out into nothing. No wonder Garbage is only happy when it rains. It's the only time life makes sense.
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