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An island

I leaned against the big oak tree for this morning's lottery, and my ass was sticky with sap all day. Every time I tried to get out of the plastic chair to sell someone a fish, the chair came up with me.

♦ ♦ ♦

Waiting at a crosswalk on the way home, I overheard an enthusiastic catchphrase conversation between two of the devoutly religious. Muslims, in this case, but with Baptists or Buddhists, only the name of the god has been changed. Maybe a few of the silly rules.

Two men went on and on, sincerely and seriously discussing their religion's arcanities and idiocies, and then one of them said something so priceless I had to write it in my notebook: "When you're young, it's possible to over-worship."

I politely kept my snickering to myself, but felt lucky that gluttony is my only addiction. None of the others major addictions — cigarettes, drugs, drink, and especially religion — have been a problem for me.

Freedom is a marvelous thing, and I'm in favor of your freedom to believe whatever idiocy you choose. Me, I'd sooner worship a bowl of Alpha-Bits than Allah, or any other supposed god. At least the Alpha-Bits are real, and do me some good. I'm a dumbshit in a lot of ways, but I'm not the worshiping sort of man.

♦ ♦ ♦

Nobody calls me back.

Called Maggie again, and left a message again. Silence echoes back at me.

That political group, the people pissed off at the SFPD, is apparently so pissed there's no patience for returning calls.

And Ron, the guy who wanted to take me to dinner and see my resumé and maybe hire me as caretaker at his cabin? I've left two messages for him since we last spoke, and I'm not calling again unless he calls me back. A guy's gotta have some pride.

Of course, I'm usually quite crappy about returning calls myself. If you've called or written to me, you're probably still waiting to hear back.

The only people I voluntarily have contact with are people calling from my "I'll do anything" flyers, and the people I live with or am about to, and Sarah-Katherine until she dumps me.

Other than that, I am a rock. I am an island, and if there's a bridge, I've blown it up.

 From Pathetic Life #13
Saturday, June 17, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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