When I was younger I had exceptional talent. Voted most likely to end up like Dylan Thomas, both with the drinking and with the writing (I assume that High School�s goading comedy contained some grain of compliment). But, here I am, over thirty and just another adult in a child�s world. Now that I�m gaining age, I�m not as interesting to others anymore. My skin is fading. My hair slinking away. My hands now slightly lost in their own unsteady world. And joints that ache, pop, crack, swell! I�m bitter of this fact, sure. I�m angry with the idea that pretty eyes are lost to me now. I�m disappointed in my job. But let�s get something clear: Life is a big reclamation center, and I just want my turd to ride on before it gets turned into fertilizer or plastic, or what ever high tech super polymer they come up with in the future. I don�t want to waste my time waiting to die and hoping for re-incarnation / heaven as a reward for the wait. I don�t want to pretend, as Aristotle did, that happiness is the most important attainment of the human psyche. It�s bull, all of it. A witch�s trick to sedate you into your 30-year mortgage and your 45 years of work. Good luck stealing the thunder from the clouds, we all realize that the heavens can�t be changed, so to, we must assume the system is as it is. Damn it to hell, as it stands, but I�m not much with weather vanes and barometers.

All there is, is is. So good luck with claiming it, when we can�t even come up with correct grammar to name it. Nietzsche would have been proud.

So now you know. What does it all mean, my writing, my ranting, and my insanity? Nothing�just something for you to plagiarize. Screw you.

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