Making Excuses and Missing Joan Rivers
Listening to the Bagpipes

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

Periodically, we all move into the mind numbing mode of disillusionment that pushes us into the blackest caves of our cranium, moving us closer to depression. We start to imagine our time as a force ticking past; we can hear the tick, tick, tick into the abyss of nothingness, but the bills march on, and the children continue to grow, and time shapes us into an older version of our beautiful, earlier self; normally a bigger version, a fatter version, a version with wrinkles, gray hair, folds of spotted skin, and unspeakable abnormalities.

This would all be acceptable if only one could find a sense of justice. Of course, something larger and more material than a "sense of justice" would be better: justice on a platter, or justice from the top, maybe justice that coincides with truthfulness, a justice that is not blind to reality. After all of the meanness, and the petty lies, the thievery, and the troll under the bridge whispering into the ears of a snickering fat butter ball, then we could all accept our place, and toil for less with more joy in our hearts.

And this joy would be for the queen's rapid packing, and the whining and sniveling know-nothing ignorance of a test passed too easily will flirt off into the dance floor of another time, and another place, and all of us will benefit from the justice of the dotted line on a highway headed north, back home where this constant back and forth, backstabbing mediocrity is accepted as normal, and the nasally whine of a voice too cheap, and too falsely dramatic, will fade into the muffled memories of a building meant to spread truth, and reveal justice.

Finally, after years of struggle, a flower will find time to bloom in a garden that was once toxic with hate, lies, insecurities, jealousy, and petty greed.

That will be the day.

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