About The Funk...

Observational Spittle from the mind of a man of color in his 40s, without the color added (most times). Come in, laugh, and you may learn something...

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Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Quitting on the pot 'cuz the poop never drops

Yes I know...the title is gross.

Whenever I post something new, I try to come up with a title that will get folks to see what the hell I am talking about.

On this night, I am down in the dumps.

You see, my dream is about dead.

No, not the one where I am in great shape and my wife still thinks I'm cute.

I love to write.  It is the one thing that I love doing...the one talent that the Good Lord has blessed with me with.

And shit if it hasn't done me any good; it's just more heartbreak.  Sort of like that ex that keeps leaving you bombs in your mailbox.

(I have to tell you that story one day...unless I stop posting; that means that I forgot to open the mail door slowly).

I celebrated my 14th wedding anniversary yesterday, and it was one of the few times that my wife and I could put aside the dreariness of our existence and enjoy good food and dessert that we definitely couldn't afford.

A wonderful waiter kept the evening light, and for a moment, I felt like "this is the life."

Then "the life" came back from its drunken night out and kicked me in the gonads as the next day's morning arrived.

Now, nothing necessarily BAD happened...but the ringing "bong" of shattered dreams tolled against my dome like a 80's Mike Tyson uppercut.

But the feeling that I haven't been able to shake for decades just hung with me; never leaving like a fake case of herpes-simplex 10.

It is why I wrote...it is why I wish I could write stories for a living (not news stories; have a degree in Journalism, but never did anything with it), so I can just...well, escape reality while being able to survive in it.

One of the well wishers on my anniversary posted on a certain social media site that materialistic things aren't important; I should be happy in what I have with my wife.

Wise words indeed.

Sadly, however, love can't pay the mortgage, light bill, garbage bill, cable bill, cell phone bill, fix the roof, replace the carpeting and the HVAC, get my son to college, get both my kids the help they need, provide any hope for retirement, and everything else that money is required to do.

I write to escape...but I also write so people would want to read what I write.

I like materialistic things.

But beyond the peace that writing brings, I wish it would bring the ability to keep the peace.

That "poop" is just sort of hanging there.

Sort of like how that "bong" I keep feeling is...never dropping off to complete the task.

And once again, sorry for the imagery.

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