They say life is supposed to resolve and sort itself out. That it’s some sort of darwinized shroedinger’s cat that the more you pay attention to, the more you turn it into something it’s not supposed to be. I’m not rather clear on the fact on who ‘they’ are, but I’m pretty sure they’re full of shit.
Life is way simpler and way stranger than that. One day you’re born, one day you die, and in the middle all sorts of weird shit happen. Cool, boring, cyclical-repetitive, depressing things… but mostly weird shit.
One day you’re standing on the 23rd floor of the Leigh-Schweitz office building cleaning windows and the next, you’re flat on the floor with your right cheek caressed by the sticky floor of a coackroached infested basement and your left cheek massaged by a size 13 military boot decorated on top with a gentle 200 pound samoan-creepy-looking fellow.
And I don’t mean creepy like Miss Rosario your 3rd grade purple-haired cat-scented English teacher who rubbed your shoulders with a little too much familiarity and used to spit-scream on your face when you screwed-up spelling “hippopotamus”. I mean creepy like: If Mike Tyson and The Undertaker had a freakishly ugly-looking lovechild, said lovechild at age 27 would have urinated it’s hypothetical bed having nightmares of this blubbering mass of lard stepping on my face.
He’s screaming at me at the top of his lungs, unfortunately I’m a little distracted by the gun he’s using to push my left eye into it’s socket and which with a little more effort would be splattered against my inner-skull.
Due to this lack of concentration, 'lovechild nightmare’ is not amused and my brains receive a little more of his love on the form of several pounds per square inch crushing my head as he gets a little bit closer to spit-scream on my face. (Can you spell 'hippopotamus’?)
Of course all sound is turned down like everything is rapidly escaping far away, followed immediately by a fade-to-black of the front row seat view I have of the floor by the only eye I’m not being tortured with.
I guess this is what passing-out feels like.
And as I fall to Neverland, my only thought that I never should’ve listened to Daniel on taking a right turn that night.
