Self Interest

There are times when I feel that blogging is an onanistic pursuit, a written pounding of the pudendum if you will. I’ve been blogging for a while and the only evidence of my production is the less than prodigious progeny of an ill equipped producer of dreck.

Be that as it may, I will continue my Sisyphean efforts to push my rock up my hill, and hopefully those that devour my liver won’t choke on its toxicity or its girth, We’ll see.

It is a sad state of affairs when a New Yorker is looking forward to traveling to Spo-vegas, but that is an accurate description of my life. Pickling upstairs with a Long Rifle 22 in my hands, cigarette at the ready, beer in hand, hunting the ubiquitous Wile E. Coyote, Genius, from a balcony, sounds oddly inviting. Four big screens, a well stocked bar, grandma and grandpa at the ready, is also inviting. Maybe the west coast isn’t so bad?

I will go, I will drink, and I will shoot. I will smoke, I will talk smack and I will enjoy. I will forget this week with 150 essays, with endless proctoring assignments, with snow and difficult commutes. It will all be the past and I will have passed it, like a kidney stone that really makes your cock hurt, but is transient. The bleeding stops, I hear. After all, life is just a series of people kicking your dick, right?

Thanks for witnessing me polishing my proverbial sword, for watching me tickle my literary pickle, for witnessing me jerkin’ my ideological gherkin and, for watching me wrestle my bald headed philosophical bastard. I think my alliterative and metaphorical work is done.

Spike