My 2020? Stopped watching movies, Netflix and TV. Then quit social media. I'm a crisis away from abandoning civilization and either riding the rails as a luddite hobo or hiding in a well-appointed hermit cave.
One time I was on the wrong side of the fourth wall, for Our Town, I had to learn to cry on stage. Watching the debate made clear how numb we are becoming to everything. Our motivation for tears is running dry.
17 days? The joy of being stranded on an uninhabited island in an ocean of uncertainty. And growing tired of talking to a volleyball. All he does is stare at me.
I am in a dark mood. So, this. Eternity? Time enough for mountains to surrender into dust, their essence paraded by the winds across the Earth - which bows before a cold black sun. But longer still. I can wait.
The true warm-and-fuzzy meaning of Christmas. I was going to take this all the way back to The Manger, but I already have enough people that want me to die an agonizingly painful, slow death. 'Tis the season.
I often apologize for being wrong or awkward. Lately I've been contemplating swimming the Atlantic - with a rock tied around my neck. It may prove how very motivated I am right now to make it to the other side.
This is the hell that never ends. It just goes on and on, my friends. Some mouses - started running it not knowing what it was. But we'll continue running it - forever, just because ...
When you are programmed to search for "why"? Life is like trying to read a novel written in an alien language - with every other page missing.
The natural human world is a monotonous gray canvas. We are not entitled to art. The inspired colors that fill our world come at a cost - borne by painters, sculptors, photographers, writers, composers, etc.
Usually. My last thought before falling asleep. And my first thought upon waking up. Is this? All there is? Well. At least not THIS morning. This morning. It was? Why am I so tired? Why is it still dark? Damn. DST.
On Sunday, I lost my last great-aunt ... and my last living connection to a world long since forgotten. No advancements in technology can preserve our stories - if nobody is around that remembers them.
History is littered with the corpses - and collateral damage - of those that sought to reshape reality with their ego. The difference between passion and obsession ... is justification.
People enjoy the escape a gifted storyteller provides - even if they are just discussing the font used in the dictionary they are reading from. Care of the world's largest cuckoo clock in Sugarcreek, Ohio.
My weirdest baseball story? 1986. Playing Marty Schottenheimer's son, winning the tournament - then getting his autograph. Must. Forget. THE DRIVE. Yes. I mixed sports. That's what makes it weird. And there's more ...
Sometimes I find peace in dreams. If I lie in bed long enough for sleep to catch me. Then the dead speak. And they say? Who we are. What we make. Someday will be found. By scavengers. Looking for something else.
Two cats. A dog. Work. My existence. Not half-full. Nor half-empty. Just. Shattered. Glass. To tread over. And over. And over again. Smearing bloody breadcrumbs. Of torture. Of misery. But the only sign. I was here.
My niece pushes her tiny dog around in a stroller. But to clarify. She does not keep any humans on a leash. That I know of. Well. I guess it explains the chokers. And purple and silver hair. Nope. Not going there.
I am feeling the stress of a Universe pushing me to the edge of what I can endure. And I am not doing well. I would pay any price - to find myself in a reality where I was not simply an object of amusement.
With Scottish, English and Irish blood in me - you'd think I'd be a regular tea drinker. Nope. Just once. Age three. DISGUSTING! I look at my great-grandmother's tea set the way most look at a toxic waste dump.
(a) What is suicide? A friend at work one day. Vomited blood. Collapsed. Lived for a few weeks in hospice. Never regained consciousness. He had cancer. But refused treatment. And didn't tell anyone. Is that natural causes?