Thursday, December 31, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, Nothing Will Ever Be The Same Again
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61A75cXaM9I&feature=related
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You hand shakes so badly you drop your phone before you can get it back into your pocket. What the fuck have you gone and gotten yourself into this time? This is beyond huge, this is fucking Universe shattering, and you have no idea how to deal with it. You can't be a father, you can barely take care of yourself for fuck's sake. You have no business trying to raise a child. Bringing another life into this fucked up world of pain, of hate, of ignorance... WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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But the thought of abortion never enters your mind. Not this time. Not with her. You want the kid, and that scares you even more. You are not ready for this. Not now. Not ever you would have said just a week ago. Shit, an hour ago even. You never wanted to be a father. You don't even like kids, not even when you yourself was one. Your mind goes back to that night in the car, when you looked down into that vile puddle of puke in your lap and noticed that little white pill. You thought you recognized it for what it must have been, a birth control pill, but the implications of what that could mean for you both never sank in. Until now. Fuck, a baby man! Your baby. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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Maybe it isn't yours though, who knows who else Wal-Mart girl (Karen?) could have been fucking. But that's complete bullshit and you know it. You feel it. And the really fucked up thing is you've been feeling it all along, you just refused to admit it to yourself. But the time for running and hiding is gone and over with. All the alcohol and drugs on the planet won't save you. There are no answers to be had in bottles and baggies. There will be no hiding from this particular problem. Like it or not you're just going to have to face the music on this one. Grow the fuck up champ. Be a man and take your medicine, as your own father used to say, often right before he beat the shit out of you. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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You gotta get your shit together, for real this time, and fast. But how, and then what? Get married? Get a haircut and get a real job? You could go back to school, trade in your ideals for a small cubicle in a faceless tower of steel and glass, recycled air, artificial light and artificial people, Garfield and Cathy comic strips taped to the walls, family portraits on the desks? You can't live like that, you'd never survive. By the second week, you'd be ready to show up for work with a loaded, fully automatic AK-47 and put everyone out of their misery, saving that last bullet for yourself of course.
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You're not cut out for the nine to five grind, you never have been, and you never will be. You're just a dormouse in the Rat Race of life, you're a pussycat in a dog-eat-dog world, in the time of chimpanzees, you were a monkey. Selling out goes against the one principle you've always held near and dear. You are not one of them. Are you? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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TO BE CONTINUED...

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