She always called me Jethro. (I have no idea why)
If you listen to me, life should be a shit show. That’s if you’re doing it right. I have blown myself up so many times and in so many different ways, I can’t believe I’m still thumpin’.
I remember sitting in that tiny apartment in Ayer, Ma, after slipping on one of my many cosmic banana peels. Things couldn’t get much worse. I lost everything, felt betrayed, and was a physical wreck with no future. 70 with a fork in me.
I was shaking off the effects of massive doses of Seroquel and horse tranquilizer to keep me from stroking out at the VA. I kept falling over and blacking out. Alcohol and Xanax was doing me in. Could things get much worse? Oh yeah. Someone gave the IRS my phone number.
I was sitting on that dilapidated couch in that dilapidated dump, frozen. If you tapped me at that point, I would have dusted. It was out of body. Then some rock star died. Rich. Had everything. Whoa! Right in my puss.
I’m thinking…. death. The final solution. What a relief that must be. Over. I don’t pretend to have an inkling what happens after this. As long as this stops.
I remember how relieved I felt with that realization. Everything just got relaxed. My respiration returned to normal. All misery has to end at some point. It did. That day.
So now it’s back to work disrupting the planet, being totally ridiculous and unreasonable. For the record: I am not chastised. I am not taking this life serious. Ever.
The clock is ticking and there’s no time to dawdle, I have a shit show to produce. Don’t I? Don’t we?
My mother would have loved all this.