A thought occurred as I gazed out the smeared window into the foggy and wet day. Should I go tan my fair underarms? A nice juxtaposition; the false sun burning my skin on a day robbed of the real thing. No, No I think to myself. Maybe instead of cooking myself to preparation for a hungry cougar of the wild night, I will instead purchase the newest fashions from out an out of town wares caravan, led by the industrious Edward Hardy. The thin cotton is worn from the whipping of rhinestone reigns, as he sits atop his neon and graffiti’ed coach and barrels toward his home hub city, Downtown Dallas, Texas.
The days have crept by since finding out about the Texas Ranger game that I am attending, but when my mind wandered to the thoughts of tailgates, middle aged men in jorts, warm light beer out of a dented keg, like a metal piñata, a loose collection of plain women and tawdry wives, and a gaggle of awkward 21 year old males, the sun broke through the clouds. Maybe, just maybe, tonight Fortuna will give me the weather to strike out upon the night and the allowance of women, multicultural, overweight, or otherwise, to harass and to lock lips.
Oh, last hour of work!
Why do you torture me with mechanical requirements of advertisements and publication quotes? All I can think about in these dire times, as the rain begins to drop again, is the sour stench and taste of the lethal weapon that I am going to drink on my way home. Like the proverbial flies in Vaseline we all are, Faulkner would give a creeping gothic smile upon my ongoing life creation, Alcoholism, Alcoholism!
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