Sometimes the sun does not shine and I make the mistake of venturing outdoors without the warm glow protecting me from the grey world and the cretins who inhabit it. Instead of palm trees bathed with golden rays I am forced to set my eyes upon people who who are not brown and beautiful, but pale and dingy and worn.
It especially revolts me to see homeless women wearing make up. What could be more ridiculous? Such views make my pancreas heave in revolt and the veins in my wrist bulge as if longing to be severed so as to end the ordeal that is life among such wretched refuse.
Did the Statue of Liberty really have any idea what she was asking for? I bet if she could see the teeming shit that washes up on the shores of my vision she would take her torch to it and set it alight.
It puzzles me to see the homeless on the bus. Is there a better box waiting for you at some distant stop? And just why are you wearing nail polish? Instead of putting make up on your body would your time not have been better served by taking your own life? Is there a Miss Homeless Pageant being held under a rotting bridge somewhere? I suspect you wouldn't win it anyway. Being homeless is no excuse for split ends madame.
I rarely make friends on the bus. It is no wonder I suppose. Sometimes I affect an Icelandic accent and throw peanuts at my fellow passengers, when not castigating them that is. Actually I'm not even sure if half the people I accost are homeless, or just have poor fashion sense.
Surely though a greater peril exists when I eschew the bus and choose to walk under grey skies, and allow urchins to steal my phone with the cunning ruse of a lost dog to lower my guard. They must have known I would ignore requests for assistance if only their well being were at stake. Could they somehow sense I cared not a bit for humanity?
However at mention of their dog being lost I was impelled to help, and moments after I lent the rogue my phone I watched them peel away, knowing I would never see or speak into that device again. It made my heart cry, and I was wistful, for the last call I had received on it was from my favorite prostitute, berating me for inquiring about her health, as if that was any of my fucking business.
My phone is gone and stolen, but I exist still, sound of mind and body, driven with longing but capable of enjoying sweetness when it comes to me again.
I think of my dog, and how I miss him so. He died of Aids, not HIV mind you, but full blown Aids. The vet never could explain to me how he even contracted the disease, but dared not insinuate that my whippet was a homosexual. He equivocated whenever I pressed him for answers, and to this day I do not know if they even make dog condoms.
The world is so ugly sometimes. When there is not sun and I am repulsed by the grotesque spectacle that is so much of life I long for a refuge. Not some ridiculous fanciful paradise where 72 most likely fat and ugly virgins await. There must be a reason why they are virgins no? And of course once you break them in they would get all clingy, and what kind of paradise is that?
Does heaven provide a sanctuary for a seeker such as me? A quiet hallowed place when one can escape the tumult and trouble of the surface life? A safe haven one can always turn to in troubled times, where one can find a secret, dark corner, imbibe an amber drink, and watch with a sly grin as your girl whirls and gyrates to drunken grunts amidst the murmured hum of the sports on the flickering screen and the drone of the DJ. I cast a furtive glance about my den and suck on the bottle. I close my eyes and see her now and all is well.
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