I'm off the poison, off the antibiotics. Now I'll see if I return to "reality" as I know it. Your "reality" may be different, of course. Everybody now is on the pipe or vape pen or mushroom gummy. Everyone is in therapy, AI or other. India attacked Pakistan and Xi is going to party with Putin. The U.S. Navy just lost another $67 million dollar jet off the deck of a ship, and all I can think of is "McHale's Navy."
You may need to Google that, depending.
As the world falls apart, however, two things dominate the news outside Earth Two Trump World: The Met Gala and the Choosing of the Pope.
I finished watching "Sugar" last night. Bullshit. He's an alien who decides to stay on planet earth rather than be loaded back on the Mother Ship. It didn't need that. It became a cheap version of Win Wenders' "Wings of Desire" where an angel decides to give up his wings. At least in "Wings" the angel stayed on earth with no superpowers. The masses, though, it seems craves super powers, magic crystals, elixirs, potions. . . anything unreal. But, and here's the kicker to me; they know little to nothing about the natural world, don't know minerals and how they are formed, don't understand chemical compounds and their structures, know little if any math beyond the basics, and have scant knowledge of physics beyond gravity. It is easier to hope for aliens and super heroes and magic rocks.
If there are miracles, though. . . count me in. I could use a few.
I'm terrified to post this next thing. It might get me in trouble with the. . . you know.
This is Emily Ratajkowski at the 2024 Met Gala. She skipped the Gala this year, but "The Naked Dress" was everywhere. Rat is tired of all the politics of the male gaze, the female gaze, etc. She thinks the Taylor Swiftian ethics of "dressing for the girls" and "dressing for revenge" is bullshit. She's been liberated from all that, she posted on social media. She just doesn't care anymore.
I'm guessing that is why she had to post that on social media.
I don't know. I missed the whole thing once again this year. Drats!
But the real shit is the conclave to choose the new Pope. I'm not sure how much God has to do with the power politics of this stuff, whether he speaks to them the way he speaks to the head of the Mormon Church--reportedly. But it seems certain that the contest will be between Church liberals and Church conservatives. Since Vance killed the last Pope, this will be a most interesting vote. I hope someone comes out shouting that the election was rigged. Maybe loyalist will be inspired by the January 6th patriots.
All I'm saying is things are getting weirder. This Christmas, some children will get two instead of thirty dolls while billionaires have twenty cars, five yachts, six mansions, two private jets, etc.
There's trouble right here in River City. This I know, and I don't even have cable.
Oh--I almost forgot! I went to see the surgeon yesterday. I got weighed first. I've lost eleven pounds in ten days. I just haven't been eating. I don't recommend this diet, though. It is pretty scary. I don't feel so well. The doc saw me for about two minutes. He scheduled me for surgery on Monday at a surgical center, not a hospital, so I will be in and out the same day. They will put me under, he said. I won't remember anything. I hope he's speaking only about the surgery. I don't want total amnesia. There are so many things I wish to remember.
But I'm anxious. How's that? A better way of saying I'm scared. Anxious is allowable, but scared, that's another thing. I'm trying to keep my emotions in check.
I'm puny now, decimated, but my mother tells me, "You look good." Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in the open garage at my mother's house with her and several of her neighbors. When the sexy dog-walking lady came by with her two big dogs, my mother's 91 year old neighbor's tiny dog ran out in a rage. I hobbled out as quickly as I could to get it. Then I talked to the sexy lady. My mother had already told her about my hospital stay, and she inquired how I was doing. I told her I felt like crap, that the antibiotics had kicked my ass, and that I was a little light in the head.
"Well you look good," she said, echoing my mother.
Starvation is a good look on me, apparently. I hardly ate yesterday, either, and I am sure that by this afternoon, I will have dipped below the weight I had hoped to achieve at the beginning of the year, under 200 pounds. I'm afraid, however, that I have become "skinny fat." You know what I mean. Not the rugged boy I've always wanted to be.
Prebiotics, probiotics, fermented foods, and fiber. That is on my agenda for the next few days. Get some gut health back. Clear my mind. Bring some life back into this old body.
Oh, yea. One more thing. When I was scheduled for the surgery, I was told I needed to have a driver who I know. Can't be Uber. O.K. I said, but that is problematic. I don't really have anyone to drive me. I hate asking favors of people, especially for something like this. Someone will have to sit in a waiting room for four hours or so. No wife, no girlfriend. . . I'm in a pickle. That has been my takeaway from this whole thing. I have no "support group." Oh, one of the BBC gymroids would take me, but I'm not down for that. My old work group has kind of dispersed and dissolved. No, I don't want to ask any of them. So right now, I'm faced with a quandary. I'm a man on a wire, alone, an enigma, a mystery.
Or I'm just a pathetic guy without any close friends. Multiple choice? You know which one I'll choose.
I've read too many books, watched too many movies. Tell your children that's not the way to go. Major in computers or business and join a fraternity or sorority. Fit in. Work your way up the corporate ladder. Get married, join the country club, have children and vacation at nice resorts. And always remember Homer Simpson's great advice to his son, Bart--the Rule of the American Playground.
"Don't say anything unless you are certain everyone is going to agree."
No comments:
Post a Comment