Yeah, shit I don’t know.
I almost had it, that greased weasel of a kernel of something almost resembling an idea.
I almost typed good idea and thought through whether to highlight and delete or delete the G separately and then which O would go, and it was too much. Morally most of my ideas are good. It’s a problem I have to live with every day. You don’t know how hard it is. No, that wasn’t rhetorical, I strongly dislike the rhetorical ‘You don’t know …’ it rhetorically implies the You is stupid. I don’t think any of y’all are stupid, morally bankrupt perhaps, but not accidentally, more with malice of forethought or ambiguity. I’m just kidding. Some of you are dumber than the box a bag of rocks came in.
See? I’m fine with shooting holes your Last Salvation for 200 miles sign on your road to perdition, but I can’t manage to stoke the flames of my own venal warts (I just thought venal warts looked funny, I don’t really know my hierarchy of sin). I could recap actual events perhaps the way I would in confessional (Pardon padre, it’s been 56 years since my last confession, I ate mushrooms with bikers and shot a goose with hipsters and a whole bunch of sex stuff other than chronic masturbation, I mean a whole bunch of sex stuff with other people, mostly one at a time …) but, see, good idea isn’t really moral, or mine aren’t, I mean that’s not what I mean by good, often it’s the exact opposite. Often it’s the exact opposite of every meaning of the word Good.
I was going to write something else though. Perhaps greased weasel wasn’t the proper metaphorical beast. Maybe a turtle, an asshole of a turtle, a stubborn, hard shelled dry turtle without apology or adjective.
I had a turle as a pet when I was a kid. I have never had a weasel. People who have weasels are a little desperate. I mean the people I’ve known who have kept weasels really wanted you know they had weasels and that made them cool because, they told me, weasels are cool.
Turtles don’t do much. I think that was the point. Not my point, my fathers point. I could have any pet I wanted so long as it was small and didn’t do much. A weasel, cool or not, only fits one of those criteria. Among the critters that only fit one of those criteria weasels would have been pretty far down the list. I snuck past the rules with guinea pigs. Well, it started off as one, turned out he was pregnant. Heh. They lived in the basement in a guinea pig condo my dad made. All things considered he did a very good job on it. The were the only mammals I had as a kid. Not counting the girlfriends. I’m not saying some of them weren’t mammals, just saying my dad didn’t consider them pets.
My folks were very lenient about me having girl friends over. To this day I think perhaps they were more than a little naïve. Maybe my siblings thought there was a double standard or I was favored or something, but I don’t think my folks were selectively naïve, I mean I think if they had tried bringing home girl or boyfriends they would have been allowed to. Just not pets.
In general I got to do most anything I wanted. I wouldn’t say I was spoiled, more like encouraged.
Shit. Now I’m just warming up for the shrink. Dude is a motherfucking Freudian (yes, appernetly they do still make those) so I’m sure it’s going to come up. When it was feasible I sort of did the same with my kids. They had more restrictions than I did, but they grew up in a city. Different set of safety concerns. By the time my daughter was walking and talking (she hasn’t stopped since she learned how to) my kids had at least one dog at their moms and at least one dog at my house, and, often, at least three cats both places. I was always told as a kid I could have as many dogs as I wanted when I had my own place. I still can barely believe I’m back here. It’s almost been four years. If it wasn’t for the GF and her dog(s) I’d have gone bat shit.
Um, two separate reasons, the GF and her dog. I probably would have wound up with both by now, but not anywhere near the quality. If we were pretending that way back in the beginning of this mistake of an entry that I was “good” I’d say I was rewarded, blessed even. I think that’s part of the problem. I need to be a different kind of miserable to write something I find interesting. Hmmm, that doesn’t look right. I guess I’m saying I’m not weasel desperate.
Just plain old pain isn’t much of a muse. You need some gut wrenching emotional distress. I don’t know, it’s just a theory or more likely an excuse. Of late writing has been like writing in mud. See? Did you see that fucking sentence — writing is like writing — fuck, if I was writing a song I could make writing rhyme with fucking writing. Ok, I don’t know what this mess is but I’m posting it as a warning, an object lesson, a something something (use big fancy ten dollars words to fill in the blanks, please, then tell me what they are).
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