March 21, 2015

Hang on, hold on a minute, I'm coming. Just give me a minute to catch my breath here. I'll be okay, I swear to ya. Really, all that shit I said about Going down for the third time, that was just the 6AM talking, that's all. I'll make it, really, ya just gotta give me a minute to catch my fucking breath.

You try not getting a decent night's sleep for going on a decade. That'll drive you batty as well as make you sick and feel like quitting, I gar-ann-tee. But you ain't gonna get rid of me that easily, I'm sorry to say. I will admit to the occasional mornings wherein I wished for the quick and painless death (there, I said it), but if you deny that you have ever said the same to yourself, I'm gonna call you a liar in just about exactly the mortal tones Jimmy Stewart took as Jefferson Smith when he said the same to Claude Rains as Senator Joseph Payne, you know, "You're a liar," his voice conveying equal measures of righteousness and menace.

So, yeah, I'm going for the quick and painless death (may as well get used to the word) here because, really, given the choice between that and slow and agonizing ... well, if ever a clause deserved to end in an ellipses, that would be it. But don't think that means I want to die (that word, again -- I expect that when I can toss it around without noticing, I will have reached the end of this piece) soon, or even that I expect to, though I don't think I'd be surprised to find myself up at the pearly gates at any time minute by minute, and what would that be like as the white robed figure with the quill in the New Yorker cartoon poses patiently for a selfie with his newest arrival?

But, fine, while I'm catching my breath, and thinking a little about (wait for it) death here, it does seem to be the great waiting game, doesn't it? So forgive me if I use this latest of one too many early wake-ups to speculate a bit on the means, time, and for lack of a better word, feeling behind my eventual (or is it looming?) demise. What if I have to take that business of my last word being "More" back? What if, instead, it's "Enough" that crosses my parched lips? What sixties wag was it who said, "It doesn't mean shit to a tree?" Well, brother, I gotta tell you it means something to me. So whether quick and painless or slow and agonizing, let me say right now that I have no idea whether I'll be full or empty, though I do sense a little more in the tank right now, even if that means another day of driving on fumes.

So, hup! Help me up here, just give me a hand, and I'll be ready to move on. I know, like, "Are you ready to stop talking about death yet?" Ain't no sense in spending too awful much time on the subject, is there? Not when we're still kicking anyway. What time is it? 8:07? So, okay, I'm ready, I caught my fucking breath now. Let's go.