A very happy birthday to me!

So, it’s been a while. I know, I know, you won’t actually understand but a guy can dream can’t he? And today he ponders the meaning of all the other days; the ones that aren’t his day. I suppose some of them have their uses: St. Patrick’s Day celebrates the cultural heritage that culminated with me and Christmas commemorates the day a Saviour was born so I wouldn’t have to spend eternity with the rest of you. And I realize most of you guys are a product of other days, but don’t you see that’s just my point! The rest of you and your two miserable options: either you were born on my day and must always feel the pressure of nature’s destiny choosing to pale you by the luminescence of its ultimate achievement, or acutely feeling the disappointment of your own dim day, you never know the radiance of this glorious day’s celebration at all. Today I revel, yes, but there is room within me for pity. I won’t lie and say I understand, but let this be a consolation to you: it is lonely at the top. So here’s to you; may you be better people for having breathed in my day!

Happy Birthday to me and Happy My Birthday to you!

Hurtful

If the morning had been better, my wife would have stayed home from work; oh well. Traffic was not murder (day after Thanksgiving), bank took the check with a forgery of my wife’s signature, and we have enough money to make rent. Sounds great, right?

Alright, while traversing the parking lot between Tom Thumb and my car, a man approached me asking for some change,

“Hey brother, help a man out. I need some change to get gas and get to Dallas. Can you spare some?”

“Sorry, all I got’s plastic.”

“****. White boys ’round here all ****** prejudice!”

The man stormed off, got in a car, and drove off. I could have spit nails; I was so mad. It angers me that people can pass judgment for a perceived prejudicial wrong and victimize others through racism with the same words, but what actually got to me about that encounter was this: until that moment I cannot remember having ever been treated in a racist fashion before. It’s nothing big really and this morning was still just shy of perfect, but for some reason it was hurtful.

Sorrow’s Offspring

Graceless and fearsome its sound;

wretched voice pounds heavy.

Angry and violent the resound;

child huddles away woefully.

The tongue vile expells.

The youth relieved departs.

The damage irreversible done.

Child and parent no more.

And All’s Well

“Don’t look,” I tell myself.

The portcullis closes slowly,

and madness strikes

if I watch it’s descent.

Behold what lies within,

or stand between

and await the point.

Major changes…

…to history, maybe.

The firstest post ever…

…is pretty short.