Two For The Road

"To live, is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." 

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."

Oscar Wilde

The Bite That Kills

Sadness grows teeth as you get older.

From the day you realize that the life you are living is foreign to your nature, a seed is planted. A sensation awakens in your mind, a mild unease that makes you uncomfortable. But not panicked. Not yet.

This is not the life you want, but you are an intelligent person - you will figure out which path is the right path, and you will course correct. You feel a little better knowing this.

But you have not accounted for the speed with which life moves, and you have not accounted for life's insidious ability to trap you in place subtly, quietly, without your awareness.

You move on, at least in time, but not in self-actualization. The sensation in your mind has moved on from unease, to profound sadness. There is a reality there, either that life has tricked you, or that you have sabotaged your own future. Either way, that reality is poisonous - it hollows out your insides.

You find yourself standing at the window for extended, mindless, moments - seeing nothing. No flowers, no birds, no sunshine, no beauty, no life. A blank stare that reveals nothing but hopelessness and despair. The excruciating realization of the most consequential missed opportunity.

It's frightening.

Are You Also Insane?

I buy a $20 scratch ticket hoping to win retirement money.

I scratch it. I don't win anything, not even a dollar.

I check it five times. Then I set it aside so I can check it later, just in case I missed my million dollar opportunity.

This is called desperation.

A Strategy

It is a waste of time to feel sorry for yourself. It invites condescension.

Better to invite tragedy into your life and allow others to feel sorry for you.

Running In Place

From the first moment you understand reality, you feel empty. Wanting. Frustrated. Uninspired. Afraid.

It is not unrealistic to be pessimistic about life. Let's face it - if you are a small human (defined by a small bank account) - you really don't stand a chance. Limited funds limit your life.

Hamsters on a wheel scurrying madly in place, exerting maximum energy, without ever moving forward. Getting more and more fatigued, slowing down, torturing optimism to death, leaving only resignation and disbelief. Looking forward and seeing the same distance ahead of you as you saw decades ago.

This is how society works. Holding out an imaginary carrot, spouting baseless cliches designed to inspire false hope, outright lying about the reality of rewards - happiness, retirement, peace of mind - just to keep those feet padding along.

Once you climb on to that wheel, it is all over. And for most of us, for the great majority of us, the die is cast at birth. The first step you take will be the last time you make progress.

"Is that all there is? If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing. Let's break out the booze and have a ball. If that's all there is."

(Life wisdom sung perfectly by Peggy Lee; the song - Is That All There Is? - written by Lieber and Stoller.)

A $5 Investment in Peace and Harmony

Yesterday, I paid $5 for 1 nip of WhistlePig. 1 and 1/2 ounces of whiskey for $5. Can you believe it?

It was devine.

Running around doing errands on a 100 degree day, doing the average things of an average life. I needed that shit that cleans wax out of your ears, I had to pick up a prescription for "crazy man" medication, I had to pick up some potato hamburger rolls (gourmet meal last night).

In the morning, before I went out on errands, I failed at saving my life, so I was pretty wound up already.

Can't take my job no more. Jesus Christ, putting stickers on sheets of paper for kids participating in the summer reading challenge. What is the point of encouraging them to read?  They're all gonna grow up to be criminals and drug addicts anyway. Or billionaires, which is essentially in the same category.

So I'm looking for salvation. Need a job that does not obliterate my soul, and pays enough money to get by, with just a little extra to pad the savings account.

My essence is on life support - I can hear it wheezing, sucking desperately for life-giving oxygen, fighting to stay alive. Against all odds.

WhistlePig is rich man's whiskey. Those with fat bank accounts get to enjoy indulgently, while the rest of us suck down Seagram's 7 or, worse, Canadian Hunter. Canadian Hunter is the type of rotgut that melts your liver as you are drinking it. Smoke actually floats out of your mouth as you grimace the fluid down to your poor stomach.

It was July 3, I was feeling set upon, I was doing menial errands - I deserved a $5 shot. Please don't tell Carol. She hates it when I do that AND I was driving her car. Not that I can't handle one fucking shot - shit, man - shots of whiskey to me are like formula to a baby - life sustaining.

I am continually lectured to be grateful, so I can more calmly navigate my life.

I am grateful for WhistlePig - even at $5 a shot.

Peek A Boo

 I spend the majority of my time, hiding.