Mafia Divorce Part II
I'm not watching the news anymore. One thing i forgot to mention is that I now live somewhere between the comfort of the middle class and the downtrodden life of those who are in "eminent danger" of whatever. It's a horrible place to be because I’ve lost what I'm used to, but not able to slip into some sort of dreamy opiate, life saving government program where I can stand in lines hours upon hours to talk to professionals who just thirty minutes before me were standing in that same line.
I want to be able to stand in a line with that pale, frozen zombie stare, slowly shifting from leg to leg, ignoring the fact that I just drank a huge supersized cup of coffee. I want to be desperately searching for a nameless face in the crowd that I can use as a template to secretly devise comparisons between his obviously pathetic life and my own existence. I want to be able to see Quasimodo standing in the line next to me so I can find relief and comfort in the fact that, at least, I'm not a four foot, six inch outta work hunchback who's only qualification is running from angry villagers and ringing bells. "well thank god I'm not him", I would smugly say to myself as he is ushered off to some posh state funded room to be given lots of money for congenital birth defects and deafness. Of course what I don't know and don't care to even think about is that my man Quasi, is sitting on a fat lump of money, Esmeralda on his lap, that he got from suing the Catholic Church and that insignificant nothing little village, called Paris, that persecuted him in public humiliation fashion. Public humiliation always pays big in America.
This is me again, off the cuff and in the same desperate state I was ten hours ago. I may be against the ropes, I may be walking through the valley of the shadow of death but I will say "Cut me Mick", Yaaa gottttaaa opun up my eyez soze I caan see" I will get up for that last round and Apollo will walk away with broken ribs and internal bleeding. I may be down but I will never give up. If I give up, what will I have to write about.
I want to be able to stand in a line with that pale, frozen zombie stare, slowly shifting from leg to leg, ignoring the fact that I just drank a huge supersized cup of coffee. I want to be desperately searching for a nameless face in the crowd that I can use as a template to secretly devise comparisons between his obviously pathetic life and my own existence. I want to be able to see Quasimodo standing in the line next to me so I can find relief and comfort in the fact that, at least, I'm not a four foot, six inch outta work hunchback who's only qualification is running from angry villagers and ringing bells. "well thank god I'm not him", I would smugly say to myself as he is ushered off to some posh state funded room to be given lots of money for congenital birth defects and deafness. Of course what I don't know and don't care to even think about is that my man Quasi, is sitting on a fat lump of money, Esmeralda on his lap, that he got from suing the Catholic Church and that insignificant nothing little village, called Paris, that persecuted him in public humiliation fashion. Public humiliation always pays big in America.
This is me again, off the cuff and in the same desperate state I was ten hours ago. I may be against the ropes, I may be walking through the valley of the shadow of death but I will say "Cut me Mick", Yaaa gottttaaa opun up my eyez soze I caan see" I will get up for that last round and Apollo will walk away with broken ribs and internal bleeding. I may be down but I will never give up. If I give up, what will I have to write about.
posted by Dr. Connour at 11:16 AM
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