It’s 11:11 p.m. I get one hour to write whatever I can and then post it. This is my new rule for writing blog posts. I chose an hour because that is basically the time I am allotted to write one article at work. This new rule will apply whenever I want it to apply. The first time it will apply is right now. The next time it will apply is who the hell knows.
I was visiting relatives in Ohio this weekend, not because I wanted to but because they threatened to send me poisonous snakes if I didn’t. That last part is a lie (even if it was true I would’ve just killed the snakes and nothing would have happened. I had pet boas in Brazil so I know how to handle snakes.)
I read three books this weekend, most of the reading took place on the bus to Indy where my little brother picked me up Friday afternoon, and also on the bus back from Indy to chitown this evening. The first book was Barabbas, which is about Barabbas (who did not fail, read the book to find out how he didn’t), by Par Lagerkvist; if you have not read anything by Par I highly recommend this man although he is unfortunately dead now and can no longer bless the world with his insight. Start with The Sybil, which is about being cursed by God.
Then I got to Indy and found a Borders, where I discovered Kurt Vonnegut and bought Cat’s Cradle, which is about the man who birthed the atomic bomb, and lots of people die at the end but not how you expected them to die. Then, when my brother dropped me off in Indy again today so he could head back up north and I could catch a bus to head back up northwest, I went back in the same Borders and bought Breakfast of Champions, which is also by Vonnegut and is about everything, and I started reading it in the store because I had two hours till my bus left. And I finished the whole thing on the bus, I finished it right about the time you could see Chicago’s skyline shining like giant neon dominoes glued to the horizon’s canvas.
In Indy today, I got on the bus half an hour before it was leaving, I looked out the window to my left and down (because I was on the second level), and I saw a manhole cover encircled by wrinkled cracked asphalt, it reminded me of dried out brownies, I don’t know why I bothered to write about that. It was just one of those moments of life that poked out, it does not fit into this account in any regard save the fact that it made up part of my weekend. If that confuses you for any reason, so be it, I am not interested in writing things that are as easy to comprehend as brownies.
The relatives we were visiting have a one-year-old boy, who insisted on whining and complaining about life as if life was supposed to be fun all the time. I will never have children, I can be patient and loving to other people’s shrieking offspring, but I would probably just give my own spawn a bunch of beer or whiskey and then, after they had passed out or whatever, I would go watch a movie or read a book and enjoy the peacefulness. I do love peace and quiet. Achieving peace is much easier than most people think. I am in fact doing it right now with nothing more than my computer, this blog, and 12-year Dewar’s straight from the bottle. I have to work tomorrow, but it’s writing work, and writers are allowed to be hungover.
This weekend, I prayed the first prayer I’ve prayed in, oh, two or three years. I did not want to pray it; I am unfortunately related to relatives who perhaps are not aware of my lack of faith, who requested that I bless a lunchtime assortment of breads and cuts of watermelon and pringle crisps with my invocatory powers. I had nearly forgotten how to pray, but was able to mumble out something about thankfulness for the food and blah blah fuck etc. I did, however, manage to writhe my way out of attending church using the excuse that we (i.e. me, mostly, not so much my brother) wanted to get back at a decent hour, which mostly explains why I had so much time to spare in Indy before my bus left. This was good because it afforded me the opportunity to give approximately $0.56 to a homeless man in Indy, which is more than I would have put in an offering plate, and it went directly to someone who would put it to good use, like drugs or alcohol, as opposed to a church that would probably just melt it down and pour it into a heretic’s disemboweled belly.
My brother, bless his soul or whatever it is that lives inside of people nowadays, knows all about my amoral lifestyle and the intense joy I feel every time I kick a cute baby. We discussed these matters aplenty during the ride to Indy from our relatives’ dwelling place in Ohio to-day. I have worried a lot about what people might think when they find out I have no morals and that I enjoy kicking babies. But my brother was OK with it.
I should consider retreating to my sleeping place soon, it being late and whatnot. Many other things happened this weekend, but none of them deserve mentioning, especially the god knows how many hours we spent playing what the fuck was that video game, I can’t remember the name now. It was one where you shot people. I like sniping them best, but that’s only because I have no morals. Good night.
