When Every Day Sucked.

I remember driving home from work one night.  Eight and a half hours without a drink.  The bolts were starting to pop out of the seams.  The matrix of reality, warping and woofing.  Psychosis nudging in.  Fear already camped out.  Making S’mores.

Besides a suspended license, I was driving with two feet.  Why?  Because I had drop foot, which is some form of alcohol-induced neuropathy.  Or at least that’s what the Chinese acupuncturist diagnosed.

But what does a few thousand years of medical wisdom know?  All I know is that it made me unable to lift my right foot.  I can’t move it from the gas to the brake.  Which turns out to be an important driving ability.  And this was an important time in my life, to have good driving ability.  Dig?

My solution was to outsource the job of braking to my left foot, while my dead right one would be in charge of flooring the gas.  I’ll be honest, it’s not the easiest way to drive.  Lot of lurching and sudden stopping involved.   Especially when braking for the Iguanacolussus, an irksome multi-ton ornithopod from the late Cretaceous period that keeps scuttling out into the middle of the road.  And then disappearing.

Anyway, I finally get my beer and I’m almost home.  Whip-lash Larousse just has to cross Cerrillos Rd. and he’ll make it.  Hands trembling.  So close.  To my beer.  To relief.

Then I spot him.  A cop cruising by the other way.  I look up into the rear-view.  Watch his brake lights flash.

Oh fuck no.  Please no.  Of course, yes.  There he goes.  Turning around.  And coming up right behind me.  Oh God.  If he pulls me over for anything I go to jail.  That much is guaranteed.  Just don’t panic.  The most important thing is not to panic.

I look away from the mirror in time to see the light turn red.  I panic.  Mash both feet down.  The gas and the brake together.

Bad move.  In terms of staying under the radar.

My back tires spin in a smoking burnout.  Just lighting it the fuck up.  All N.H.R.A.  Funny car shit.  The chassis tap dances through the red light, and into the middle of the busy intersection, where it comes to rest after I finally picked up my feet from the pedals.  Traffic both ways screeching and skidding to a stop.  Me just sitting there with my eyes shut.  Awaiting impact.

There was one final tire-squealing brake, and then silence.  I had stopped the entire intersection.  Now sat there idling.

I am so going to jail.  I am going to have to detox behind bars.

“Sweet Lord. help me.”

I look up at my rear-view.  I can’t believe it.  He’s gone.  The cop is not there.  Honest to God, he wasn’t even driving away.  He was just…gone.  I don’t know if I hallucinated him being there in the first place, but I know I didn’t hallucinate him not being there.  Because if he really was still there, I’d be in his back seat.

Holy and most merciful Creator!  Thank You for vaporizing that peace officer.  And hopefully to a happier dimension.

I exhale.  My spine puddles around my pants.  I’m hanging on to the steering wheel, when I see myself in the mirror.  My eyes looked like oven-baked marbles.  All cracked from the heat.  Glowing red.  I looked insane.

Even I thought so.

I lift my left foot.  And then press down with my right one.  The car goes forward.  Okay.  We’ve got this.

I crossed Cerrillos and traffic resumed.  I was going to get to those beers.  And everything was going to be okay.  Until tomorrow.

I need a drink.

I need a drink.

I became physically addicted to alcohol around 1995.  The mental component had long been hooked.  But it took a while for the body to catch up.  It made it though.  Hooray!

Previous to this, I had, at times, experienced some ill-effects from consuming liberal amounts of alcohol.  Fire-hosing vomit across stranger’s laps could have been a warning that the quantity of beer I was inhaling wasn’t sitting well.  But once I realized I could carry a chopstick in my back pocket–a black lacquered Chinese one, I figured I’d solved that problem.  Now I could pick and choose where to discreetly dispel any tummy-upsetting froth.

The front entrance of Tom and Lenny’s Shoes, on 63rd Drive, in Rego Park, Queens was a favorite.  I had worked for them once, and felt my treatment there had been unfair.  Perhaps this wasn’t a valid way to protest it, but I just always seemed to feel better after barfing on their doorstep.  And that was good enough for me.

So you see, back then, the repercussions from my drinking, just weren’t bad enough, to even contemplate stopping.  Never mind actually trying to.

Sure, there were the usual hang-overs.  Some of them notably brutal.  But you learned to endure them.  They built character.

The Tuesday morning of a three-day bender, I’d feel a little out of sorts.  A little groggy and nervous about having to operate a vehicle.  Vertigo making the floor roll and buckle.  Eyes blurred from dehydration.  Ice pick in the forehead.   Tainted chowder gurgling in the guts.  Bones hurting and feeling too loose in their sockets.  Sore liver.  Acrid bile percolating in the throat.  Thoughts of suicide.

But it was nothing that a beer and chorizo omelet couldn’t fix.  A tickle of the chopstick, some Gatorade and a breath mint, and I was right as rain.

Then one day, I woke up and noticed my hands were shaking.  What’s this?  That’s so after-school special kind of alcoholism.  So stereo-typical.  So not my Ripley’s Believe it or Not kind of alcoholism.  When talking to friends, I would often cop to being an alcoholic.  “But I’m not one of those…you know…” I’d hold my hands out and make them shake, “I need a drink or I’m going to die kind.  All Ray Malland and shit.”

Well, it was looking like I was becoming all Ray Malland…and shit.

Accompanying the trembling was a rather snappy anxiety, one previously experienced while running from police or watching women take pregnancy tests.  Now it had me teething on a high-voltage power line whenever my beer levels went low.

Fucking great.  I’d sit there frozen in fear.  Too terrified to even twitch.   I’m scared to get up and brush my teeth.  How am I going to manage driving to work on a suspended license, then dealing with the public for eight hours?

It turns out, not very well.

There were moments, when the alcohol was leaving my system, that I thought I would go mad.  Only another Lost Weekender knows what I’m talking about.  It’s a bad dream.  Set-designed by a German expressionist.  The furniture bending at strange angles.  People are talking to you in Swahili or Urdu.  What are they saying?  Am I getting into trouble?  Or are they putting together a lunch order?

“Did someone just say something about Bea Arthur’s vagina?  No?  Never mind…I…”

I don’t know what is going on.

Except that I keep seeing sad angels in my head.  Skull people in concentration camps.  A coughing flower.

My pencil has become sinister and I have to throw it away from me.

As far as possible.

It takes every strand of will-power not to run out into the street flapping your arms.  Sweat pouring from your pits.  Stomach knotted in an icy grip.   Throat dry.  You hear strange organ music coming from the employee fridge.  Spy shadow figures darting around the periphery.  They’re waiting for you.

They can smell your death.

So can you, actually.  There’s a new strange funk that’s clouding out of your pores these days.  Besides, the sour beer smell.  It’s different.  It smells…like decay.  Killing off too many cells at once you are.  That’s kind of unnerving.  I better drink more so I don’t worry about that.

When I started morning maintenance drinking, it wasn’t done in any Cancun spring break, devil-may-care abandon.  It was conscious calculation.  I can’t function without having two or three beers before work.  I’m not drinking to “party down.”  I’m drinking so I don’t see the Devil while trying to make change for a customer.

I have to drink to make it.  Without it, I will fall apart.  Even faster.

I don’t care how much of a dumb-shit, clueless drunk you might be, but when an egg timer gets turned over after every last drink, you realize things.  Like maybe, you’re fucked.

Which is actually good.  To realize.

It’s the most important seed-thought an alcoholic can have.  If they’re going to have any chance.

Fortunately, I had been having that thought a lot.

So things were already good.  And I didn’t even know it.

41 responses to “When Every Day Sucked.

  1. Thanks for that. I read it first thing this morning. The perfect breakfast burrito. Drinking does enable us to create our own personal hell. But it’s much better than the ‘normal’ hell, shared with all those other losers who just like killing children etc. Why? Because we’re like the voluntary patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. We can check out if we get fed up of the torment… unless, of course, we slowly accept the liquid lobotomy and have to be smothered by the big Indian.
    More tea vicar?

    • Why I would love a spot. Feel free to splash it with some holy spirits, if your generosity sees fit.
      Sorry for the tardy reply, old boy, but the Lass and I went on an overnight at the local beach. I’d been saving up wood to burn for a month and a half just for this little camp out. Wanted to reenact The Great Chicago Fire. I don’t know about you, Johnny my lad, but I have this thing about fire. Right? If I can combine fire with some salt sea spray, preferably from a body of water large enough to swallow a few continents, a certain alchemical process takes place. One that transmutes the dross of my everyday thoughts into gleaming gold visions.
      But yeah, I know, I’m preaching to the choir. The fire choir. And yeah, I too vote for a more strident, voluntary hell, as opposed to a hell that you don’t even know you’re in. At least with the former you’re more likely to snap out of it.
      But then again, torment is torment. Which ever way you decide to slice it.
      I just hope you’re slicing yours wah-fer theen these days.
      Smootches, Bupski

  2. My Brother,
    The idea that hangovers may serve to build character has imparted a special sense of pride in what I accomplished in those ‘lost years.’ (I certainly did me some building back then!)
    Thanks as well for the Bea Arthur visual, which I’m certain I will cherish forever…


    • You’re welcome for the Maude porn. Cherish it well. I got to tell you, I hesitated with that one. Took it out once. Then put it back in. (Like I did with Bea.) MmmmmMaude. That long crocheted vest. What secrets lay beneath it? Is her bite worse than that bark?
      Are you intrepid (or drunk) enough to see?
      Anyway, G., it’s great to hear from you. I seem to remember us drinking together some time. Was it at P.V. park? I can attest to your stringent character-building regimen though. And look how you turned out, a sober, healthy, semi-sane individual. And one of the funniest fuckers on the planet.
      But you ALWAYS were that, even way, way, way back then. Thank you for the many happy years of laughter, my friend. You are most…cherished! ha.
      Love you to pieces, Spudman. Guy.

    • Thanks Bluesky, Garrulously bloviating is what we do best here. Take pride in our work we do. Nice dinosaur catch. I like the Drinker. Always been partial to the hypsilophodonts. That includes the people version. But here’s where I really feel an affinity with your Montana lizard, a similarity of soul, if you will: From the Wiki- “It has usually been regarded as a “hypsilophodont” of uncertain but basal affinities.”
      Well that fucking clinches it. Right there. It’s all about the basal affinities, as far as I’m concerned. They’re the glue that binds.
      Thank you for visiting. Come back anytime. The key is under the dead Ficus.

  3. As luck would have it, I just very recently bought a copy of “The Lost Weekend,” after reading a profile of Charles Jackson in the NYT Book Review. Now, thanks to your remarkable confessional, I feel I don’t have to read the book.

    • Glad to save you the eye-strain, Yimmy. I just read about Jackson. Not only an alcoholic, but a gay man in that social culture. Boy, that must have been fun. Brave dude. Dude, when are we going to go camping? Having been given a thorough geo-political tour of your environs the last time I saw you, I KNOW you know some good spots. Let us make it so.
      You bring the beer, I’ll bring the bag pipes.

  4. “When I started morning maintenance drinking, it wasn’t done in any Cancun spring break, devil-may-care abandon. It was conscious calculation. I can’t function without having two or three beers before work. I’m not drinking to ‘party down.’ I’m drinking so I don’t see the Devil while trying to make change for a customer.” Brilliant! You know I relate to this. Great stuff, Marius. Hope you’re well!- Sean

    • Thanks Mahone. Sorry to hear you could relate. But I know how that goes. It’s actually a good thing. Especially now that we’ve popped out to the other side.
      Look at us now, Ma! No hands!
      No hands, that’s for sure. And strangely, it turns out to be safer. To let go of the handle bars.
      Fucking ironies. They’re always so ironic.
      All is well here, Sean. Hope it’s the same for thee and thine. Thanks for hanging out.
      Now I’ll let you get back to shining on, crazy diamond.
      Love, fucking of course,
      P.S. Peach?

  5. Dear Mr. Gustaitis:

    We received your sample chapter, “When Every Day Sucked” and we put it through the usual car wash cycles that all of our great writers go through. Just to make sure that A=A and Z=Z without getting into funky accents or grave umlauts. First we ran this by legal, and everything seems to be on the up and up. They were concerned a bit by the perhaps confessional tone of the piece, especially with the driving incident and the vomitorius excelsior episode. They were able to make a few calls and get “things taken care of”. I would suggest sending Brutus and Vindictus a lovely arrangement and shortbread cookies for cleaning up the potential mess.

    As for the descriptive terms, we found that once again your writing was, as the kids say these days “rad” and “boss”. One or two of us in the boardroom had Skittles (TM) snorting through our noses as we perused your work. Not even JK Rowling did that for us, bless her heart for trying. We found the pacing, vocabulary and bitter-to-sweet ration in the green zone, edging into the “wicked” zone. We will have to recalibrate the machine after your piece to make sure that it’s fair to the next writer we take on.

    We also did some fact checking with our resident booze hounds and former lushes, and found your story telling was “bang fucking on” as the once bar flies are apt to say when something strikes their sweet spot. Your tales are far from fetched and more formidable in their telling. We are told that your fantastic tales are not only fantastic, but they ring more than true. They were found to be both funny and yet cringe-worthy. These are the things Pauly Shore ever so desperately sought after in his tone poems sent to us, but you really hit the nail on this one.

    Overall, this piece is fundamentally outstanding. If our measuring scales were found at a carnival, you certainly have gotten the ring around the milk bottles, filled the balloon through the clown’s mouth with the squirt gun and accurately guessed an entire Filipino tour bus’s weight and age. If we had tears, they would be running by now. Your tale is told with depth and weight, as some book mentioned, and it’s a cautionary tale and yet has great hope.

    Please send us the rest of your work. We pay by the shekel.

    Yours in verbiage,

    James T. Kirk, esq.

    • Mr. Kirk, please Western Union the aforementioned shekels as soon as possible. I will consider it an advance…on more to follow. There’s only one thing I need to explain, and that is that this is the book. All of it. My agent explained that in this rising tide of attention deficit disorder, books under two thousand words are the trend. The three page book is the future of writing. Apparently, people like to say they have read a book, but nobody actually wants to read one. With abbreviated literature people can read a book in the time that it takes to shovel a bowl of cornflakes into their slackened jaws. It’s for real. Attorney’s looked it over, and they found no minimum word requirement for a publication to be classified as “a book.” I guess this was all litigated early in the 90’s in a class action suit against grant-funded poets.
      Anyway, what this means for me, is I’m done with the book, and you fuckers need to pay up.
      However, until our lawyers get this all straightened out, I hope you won’t mind if I cut and paste from your letter for the jacket of my very short book. I seem to have misplaced all my ringing endorsements and would love to use some choice blurbs. “Far from fetched,” being one we’d like to have on the front cover. As the title, if you will allow.
      Eagerly awaiting anything worthy of my anticipation,
      Marius Gustaitis

      Thanks Paul. Once again, you’ve managed to create high art, in this lowly comment section. You are one brilliant verbiager. And you make me laugh. But…
      even if you did DO Facebook. I wouldn’t be your “friend.” Not in a million years. Unless of course, you sent me a friend request. I “friend” everyone, except for the sexy Mexican and Filipino chicks I suspect are spam, but really wish weren’t.
      Here’s the rub. If you published pictures of your breakfast or family reunion, or newly organized garage, I’d be psyched to see them. Your boring stuff would be interesting to me. I guess that means love. As it stands, I feel like I’m missing out on seeing neat everyday things about you.
      “Hey, look at that, Pauly likes Belgium waffles!” I’d say to Lori. I thought he was going to lay off the carbs and sugar, I’d think.
      It’s fun. Nothing better than sitting up at night realizing some pithy comment you made could be construed as ass-holish. Second-guessing every utterance, reading between lines, getting insulted, wondering if the NSA has you on their concentration camp list. C’mon! Open up the nice box, Mrs. Pandora gave you. Don’t be rude.

    • Did someone say Skittles? My skittles radar was going off.

      Oh I see they came out of your nose. Never mind then.

      • What? Just because they were in someone’s nose? Probably for a very short time at that. Picky picky, Christy. That’s alright. I guess sinus-flavored Skittles aren’t for everyone. I’m a peanut M & M man, myself. Put those in my powerless against category. Right under a bunch of other stuff.
        Hope you’re having a good day, Christy.

    • Sue Bob,
      The last thing I would want is to dissuade a young lady, such as yourself, from having some wine. Without that momentary lapse in a woman’s judgement from a glass of grape, my love life would be as desolate as Ft. Collins, CO. So drink up girl. A life not laden with regret, is a life not lived.
      Look here, Pea Brain, I am so proud of you abstaining. Especially when you haven’t Stalingraded your life into smoldering ruins. You’re smart.
      “High-bottoms” we call folks like you. With just a smack of disdain that comes from envy. “Yeah, she’s a high-bottom. Quit drinking before things got really bad.”
      The rest of my pals clucking and shaking their heads. Like we feel sorry for you. All the interesting things you’re going to miss out on.
      “It takes what it takes,” is another thing we say around here. That’s a good one. You know how much I love ambiguous statements. Almost as good as “It is what it is,” but not quite.
      And yes everybody, click on Elan and Heather’s blog links. Just don’t compare their stuff to mine and decide I suck. I hate when that happens.
      Okay, Sue Bob, I poke at both your Junior Mint eyes. But you’re wearing your glasses so it doesn’t hurt.
      Love ever since,

      • I’m absolutely positive, my fellow, that if there are comparisons, you will win ALL THE WINNING. I mean, this writing of yours? I’m quite happy to have found it. Please write the book and send it to me early, that’s all I’m begging you to do. I promise, no other demands.


      • Thank you, Heather. I so want to win all the winning. It’s like one of my things. So I’m glad you think I will. Win all of it. Especially with any comparisons, which is where I traditionally come up short. Hell, I’d be plenty happy winning 4/5ths of those.
        But all of them. Well that’s a pretty heady intoxicant. One worthy of another nip. ALL THE WINNING!
        It burns going down, but Whoooooo-eeeeeh! Nipples of Venus, it feels gooooooood.
        So I’m much obliged, ma’am.
        As for the book, rest assured that when I get that Albatross off my neck, I’ll stuff the bird into an envelope and post it to you, Heather of the extra-ordinary, and asker of the most burdensome of demands as her only one.
        Anyway, thanks again for the shot. I’ll get you back.

  6. It is interesting that you posted this last night as you were in my dream as well last night. In the dream you were very happy with life. Now that I read what you compare your present days to when they all use to suck, I can see why you are happy. These memories are a reminder of what we could go back to if we do not do the deal. I am so glad you are doing the deal. Your happiness is well deserved!! Lola

    • You know, Lola, I don’t know if my happiness is well deserved or well-earned. It goes back and forth. Then there’s neither. I like the concept of Grace. The spiritual equivalent of the Get Out of Jail Free card. But actually that’s just luck, and this is more love. From other people. It was other people’s love that saved me, and continues to. Loving them back is what makes me happy. And of course, yucking it up with other alcoholics. Drunk or sober, I love ’em all.
      The sober ones just seem to smell better. And make you spend less time in emergency rooms.
      I just want the still-drinking ones to know that the fun doesn’t stop when you put down the warm can of Steel Reserve. Take it from me, the laughs get better. I have no reason to bullshit anybody. Everything gets better.
      But you know that, Lola. I was talking to those guys over there. Pissing against my 17th Century tapestry. My favorite one, The Royal Hunt. You can’t just Stanley Steamer that shit.
      Ah well, it takes what it takes.

  7. This brought back unpleasant memories of the physical side to alcohol addiction. As strange as it would sound to anyone who isn’t alcoholic, thank you very much for that.

    • Hahaha, yeah exactly. “Thank you for reminding me of a terrible time in my life!” Where else but in recovery are you going to hear that and feel okay? Well, you’re very welcome. I am happy to oblige.
      Hey, good thing to add to a Match.com profile. “Likes outdoor activities. Good music. Candle-lit dinners. Attentive listener. Empathetic. Triggers painful memories.” Dude, you are soooo in there!
      The ladies call me Flashback Jack. Because I bring it all flooding back.
      We recovering booze hounds do need to keep being reminded, eh? It’s weird. When I was nine I got car-sick while eating German Black Forrest ham. I haven’t touched the stuff since. You get where I’m going? If anything gave me 1/10 of one percent of the pain that drinking caused me, I would recoil from it like a hand from a hot stove. (Unless I was the girl on LSD in the ’70s anti-drug film they showed at grade school, narrated by Sonny Bono. Then I would touch it. Because I’d be thinking the flame was actually a pretty flower. That’s right kids, she shot Acid…and got burned!)
      Yet, even now, after almost ten years, the thought drifts by, “Maybe I can just have 12 beers and stop.” It’s insanity. Good thing some preternatural force restored me to sanity. At least in regard to picking up that first twelve pack.
      Bye Bye Beer, indeed. Buh-bye, baby. Take me off your contact list.
      Not you, of course. The beer. I was talking to the beer.
      You can stop by anytime. We’ve got plenty of room around here.
      I’ve even got a spare air mattress, but crappy plastic pump takes forever. It’s almost easier to just blow it up yourself. Good head rush too.
      Yours in continued sobriety,
      and love,

    • Be sure you untie those peepers of yours, Nurse Judy, before you operate a vehicle or heavy machinery. I wouldn’t want any mishap on my conscience. You see, I have never felt regret, and I’m afraid I might not like it. The people in movies and tv don’t seem to like it very much. So I have to go by that.
      I don’t know why I’m even worried. As long as I stay perfect, I won’t have anything to regret.
      Except living a miserable life.
      Love you too.

  8. An alcohol and drug induced persona was my freak flag for many years, and yes, I held it high. Until I too started morning maintenance to relieve the tremors and tangled, thorn riddled brier patches I couldn’t seem to claw out of.
    Thanks for the great visuals, I look back on the insanity and smile.
    We are the lucky ones!
    Who would have thought?

    Great writing,

    • Thanks, Ace. I know you’re clean and sober these days, but your freak flag is still waving. I’d leave it up, bro. It helps motorists see you when you cross the street in your Rascal. Yes, we are the lucky ones, my friend. Not only alive, and sober, but P.B.I.s (powerfully built individuals) as well. We’re all about stimulating growth these days. Both the spiritual AND the muscular hypertrophy kind.
      So it’s been great knowing you through both. You are truly what is known, in perhaps dated street parlance, as a righteous dude.
      Now, “Wave that flag, wave it wide and high.”

  9. The threat of Bea Arthur hallucinations are enough to keep me sober. Dear god. And you tagged her too. In your post tags, not with spray paint. At least I hope not. I pray you were never *that* drunk. Oh god, I pray I never was either.

    Agreed. If we can realize that we’re fucked, that means we can do the work to get unfucked. It’s the being ducked (yes iphone auto correct, being ducked sucks too) and fucked and not having the slightest clue about it that really sucks. (I think some call that denial.)

    You’ve got a way with words, Marius,

    • Top of the late afternoon to you, Christy. Yes, I agree, the innernets has become as cramped as steerage class on Chinese oil tanker. I keep telling myself I don’t feel claustrophobic, and that I’m actually cozy and snug. Sometimes it works. A lot of times it doesn’t.
      Oh God bless Elan “Schmutzie” Morgan. She’s been very good to me. Many a boost I’ve taken from her entwined fingers, to climb through some unlocked bathroom window. She has definitely aided and abetted my efforts here. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay her. Perhaps with a bag of peanut M & M’s with a ruby inside.
      Do you like rubies, Christy? I have entire bathtub full of them here. The pawn shops don’t want to touch them.
      Glad to see your words too.

      • Oh, yes, Marius, I like rubies very much. I’ve been collecting them to make my own pair of Dorothy-esque ruby slippers. But, alas, I have only a few and my feet are a perfect (size) ten, so I fear I may never get home again.

        Maybe we could work out an even trade? M&M’s for gemstones?

        (Very well-timed new post, my friend, as I wrote about death this week. We do love our pain don’t we? Somehow we just can’t turn away from a train wreck. I suppose this is both blessing and curse.)

        I’ll start stocking up on the chocolate. Tell your friends to buy M&M stock. -c

      • So something tells me I’m gonna get burned in this deal, trading M & Ms for precious stones. And yet I feel compelled to see it through. Interesting lapse in judgement on my part. I hope the repercussions of this decision don’t hurt me too badly. Only one way to find out.
        Shall we measure by weight, in order to maintain some stage-craft representing propriety?
        Hey, how come you can’t make shoes out of M & M’s instead? Start with those, and if they’re any good you could move up to sapphires and such.
        I need more time to think about this. Maybe drink a bunch of beers and then come up the good idea. Like always.
        In the meantime, I’ll be awaiting photos of your prototype on Instagram.
        As I remain,

  10. Damn good piece. Never heard of the lead foot thing, and the hallucination of the cop, the chopstick – such good writing. Really relatable.

    Love to read of your experiences, Marius. Thank you.

    • Sorry to hear some of it was relatable, but at least some our past misery parallels. Leads to feeling closer. Which people need to do more of. If we’re going to make it out of here non-extinct. We are all on this life raft together. Time we realize it.
      Thanks for reading, commenting, being you.
      The world is a better place.

      • Hiya Marius 🙂

        Alas, Sunday is now passed and I am faced with Monday and the need to look for a job (retrenched last week). Stress.


      • I totally forgot that Australia is on the cutting edge, when it comes to time. Always one step ahead of us you folks are. And fair at that, I say. Any continent colonized by criminals and misfits among a spiritually keen indigenous race is bound to hold me spell-bound. My mom tells me that her family was going to move to Australia after the war. My grandpa had his mind set. My grandma unset it. They all immigrated to New York City instead. I often wonder how things would have turned out if he had kept his foot down, under. Although I am an embarrassingly proud native of Gotham City, Australia would have been my second choice.
        After Monte Carlo. Second after there.
        As for your employment, won’t you join me on my knees? Please, so I don’t look so fucking stupid kneeling here by myself. Two people make prayer look less pathetic.
        “Dear Whoever started all this reality business, please allow Noeleen, niece of Rosalie, of Melbourne, Australia–Kick ass place by the way. Nice job. Please allow her to receive from your boundless beneficence. Allow her to find a good-vibed job where all her personal strengths can be employed to their maximum benefit to The Whole. And pays decent. Thanks ahead of time. Us.”
        Well. Nothing to do now but wait.
        Not too long. You’ll see. I’m good.

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