Red Cent

“To many people.” Wanda was so tired of saying it that the words came out like a polysyllabic name. She sat on a bench at West Lake Center and watched as streams of people cut meandering routes around her. When the weather was nice, as it so rarely was, she tried to enjoy the sun. Now it was summer and even in the shade, the air was warm and felt good.

A skinny teen in tight black jeans that sagged below his boxers attempted to flip his skate board. The board spun around in the air, but as one of the boy's feet landed on the tail end of the board, the nose cut upward into the boys groin. He fell to the ground rolling and grabbing his crotch as his friends gathered around.

Wanda rolled her eyes as she took another sip of her Starbucks lunch. Her temp job scanning legal copies in a high rise a few blocks away had turned into something more permanent. She was fairly certain that her boss Mike was keeping her around because she hadn't made a mistake in four months, but just as likely it was because he enjoyed the look of her back side through his office door. The Xerox machine where she was stationed was on an internal wall near the water cooler, and Mike always had his office door open. Her high heels pinched her feet, but every once in a while she would catch him averting his gaze a little too late.

“Hey could you spare a dollar?” The gray bearded man's eyes were bloodshot and contrasted the clean clear image of Mike that had been floating in her mind. He held out a rumpled Starbucks cup in front of Wanda and shook a few coins.

“Sorry, I only got credit,” Wanda said and took another sip. She shrugged and looked away a bit annoyed that the bum didn't move along.

“How about a quarter?” he said. He jingled the cup a few more times. Wanda looked up at him. Was he wearing two pairs of pants in this heat? She found it disturbing that so many winos in Seattle would wear layers fit for the arctic.

“No, like I said, I only have a credit card.” Again she looked away feeling more uncomfortable with each passing second. It was her one hour to get away and she didn't want this beautiful day tainted by some hobo.

“I just need to catch the bus to the U-district,” the bum said.

“Why? Aren't there enough people around here to harass?” Wanda saw that the venom in her voice had jolted the scraggly man from his pathetic rehearsed script. They both knew there was no bus. His eyes lit up in a way that could either be anger or amusement. She wasn't sure, but as the seconds passed and the man stood, she felt her resentment turn into something close to disgust.

“Lady, you have no clue,” he said shaking his head and turned to walk away.

“Why not do something other than mooch off of people? Why don't you get off the booze enroll in some AA program and get your shit together, huh? I have no clue?” She felt her voice growing louder with each word. The man stopped after taking a few steps. His shoulders were shaking. Was he crying?

“No, better yet,” Wanda said and took another sip, leaving the statement unfinished. Then she muttered into the cup, “Just fucking kill yourself.”

The bum turned around slowly and she saw that he wasn't crying. He was convulsing in a deep, silent belly laugh.

“Kill myself?” He asked. Did he really hear her above all the noise? His eyebrows were raised creasing his forehead in mottled brown ravines. His blood shot eyes seemed clearer somehow, the irises a sky blue.

“Yeah, that's right. There are seven billion people too many, and some of us have jobs and try to contribute.” She looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “It looks to me like all you want to do is take our hard earned money and drown yourself in booze.” After she had said it, she felt better. But then she wondered, why was she talking to this guy? Maybe it was because he hadn't moved on the first time she said she didn't have anything for him.  It was probably because she was tired of staring at the Xerox machine all day. She downed the rest of the mocha and stood up.

“So you contribute to this great country of ours, and I'm just worthless scum?” He shrugged bringing his palms flat up in the air. Wanda thought his hoarse voice was a decibel too loud, but no one else seemed to notice. His denim coat lifted from his waistline, and she saw the the belt loops of his pants were tied together with shoe string. It appeared that under his dirty jeans were a pair of gray sweats. Maybe the layers were so he could drink and pass out without catching a chill. Disgusting.

“Never mind, just go bug someone else, I only have 15 more minutes and I don't need the head ache.” Wanda shook her head and started walking across the square. She hated that he was probably eyeing her butt as she walked away when she was startled by a guttural grunt that sounded like a bear.

Wanda spun around to see the bum, his face was red, eyes shut in what was either a grimace of pain or something equally disturbing. For a moment she wondered if he was having a heart attack. He inhaled deeply and let out a guffaw of laughter that was unlike anything she'd ever heard. She considered walking onward, but something about the spectacle made her pause. After all, she had come to the square to break the monotony, and she still had a half hour to kill.

“Oh, that's funny is it?” Wanda said, but she too was now smiling although hers was a hard one.

“You people! You--” and he broke down once more in a moist chortle of amusement leaning over to steady himself with his hands on his thighs. The humor was somehow contagious and Wanda felt her own smile grow.

“We people what?” Wanda asked. She was actually curious. He was probably insane, but she wanted to know what was so damned funny.

“You think you have it all figured out! You think you know the proper way to live life.” He was wiping tears away from his eyes.

“Buddy, I don't have shit figured out. All I do is work and try to get by, so it bothers me when street people come up and ask me for my hard earned money.” She squeezed on the cup and the plastic lid popped off and fell to the ground.

“So why do it? Do you really think your contribution is a positive one in this... system? Are you blind to what you're actually doing?  I mean actually doing to the world.” He looked around at the buildings and nodded with what appeared to be appreciation. But it didn't sound to Wanda like he was referring to the architecture.

Wanda bent over and picked up the coffee lid and realized that she probably looked like a fool talking to this dirty transient. But as she looked around to the oblivious masses, Wanda realized that it might be interesting to hear this man's perspective.  She felt a mixture of revulsion and intrigue.

They were standing a dozen feet apart and it was a bit difficult to hear what he was saying over the white noise of the fountain. Wanda stepped back to the bench and sat in front of the bum who began to look down at the empty spot next to her.

“Don't you dare. You probably have all kinds of critters, lice and scabies that I have no desire to come in contact with.” She noticed that she had been crumpling her cup reflexively and that it was now in the same shape as the bum's coin collector.

“What matters in life to you?” The bum asked.

“I don't have time to get all philosophical with you. I only have a few more minutes and have to get back to work, something you wouldn't know anything about.” However the question had been something Wanda had been wondering to herself recently.  The job, Mike, days filled with paper, where was it all leading?

“And you've chosen to spend those precious minutes talking to some bum off the street, huh?” He seemed to find everything she said hilarious.

Wanda looked at her crumpled cup and wished there was a bit more of the mocha in it. For the past few weeks she had never felt quite awake. She suspected that the Xerox machine was sucking her life away sheet by sheet.

“Well, I suppose I don't really care, but why were you laughing so hard just now?”

“When a snooty little know it all bitch tries to give me advice, it just gets my goat is all.” The bum's eyes were twinkling. Wanda chose not to be offended.

“Well when a stinky old alcoholic tries to get beer money off me, and I tell him I don't have it, and he presses me... did you not hear me the first time?” Wanda felt her mood shifting back to annoyance and was beginning to regret sitting down again, but her feet were sore and she felt like she should try and talk some sense into this strange man. He should at least learn how rude it was to go around asking for change.

“What if that stinky old alcoholic hasn't touched a drop since before you were born?”

“Don't give me that shit. You're bloodshot eyes tell a different story.”

“Not that you've asked, but I'll tell you that I was woken up three times last night and only got a few hours of sleep. They found my camp and I had to move. They gave me a ticket for the stolen grocery cart and took my dog and everything else I had. It wasn't much, but now I have to start all over again.”

“Who's they?”

“Who do you think?”

“Oh right, the cops.”

“Smart girl.”

“If you had a job and paid rent, none of that would have happened,” Wanda listened to her own canned advice with a twinge of self contempt. She knew by looking at him that he wasn't fit for the job market, but maybe a janitor or something.

“Maybe not so smart,” but he was still grinning.

“So you're just content to wander around and bum money off people all day? Don't you have any self respect?”

“It doesn't have to do with being content or not. Just like you, I'm trying to get by. Live my life. As far as self respect, I don't see how I'm hurting anyone.”

Wanda tried to look at him in a different way. The bloodshot eyes were shining, but behind that was a look of exhaustion. She wondered if the man's story was true. She knew the SPD had made a promise to try and clean up the streets and stop unwanted solicitation. Perhaps it was true, and for just a moment she felt something close to pity.

“The difference is,” the bum said after a beat, “I chose long ago not to participate in modern day slavery, and I suppose that's where I find the self respect.”

The comment caught her off guard. The bum nodded and looked away from her to where a little girl was screaming at a helium balloon that had gotten away.

“Slavery? No, I actually get paid for my work,” Wanda said.

“No, I mean that,” the bum said pointing to the balloon. Then with his hand he arched across the square and ended with his index finger pointing at Wanda.

“I'm not a slave.” Wanda said. “No one here is a slave. I realize jobless slobs think work is slavery, but it's not. It's just decent folk trying to contribute.”

“No, you misunderstood me.  Your clothes, your shampooed hair, your shoes, your life,” he nodded gravely, “You have slaves.”

Wanda was taken aback by the sureness with which the man spoke. She looked at him closely. His eyes were still twinkling with a knowingness that wasn't quite accusatory. She frowned and shook her head.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, and you can stop pointing at me now.” She brought the cup to her lips forgetting that it was empty. The man brought his finger down to his lap and nodded. 

“Have you ever been out of the country?” The bum took a few steps closer and sat down next to her. She scooted to the edge of the bench and considered standing up. But she would be standing up for hours bent over that damn machine, so she decided to tolerate the proximity.  He better not try and touch her.

“Yes, I went to Italy last summer with some friends,” she said as she folded her legs and tried to pull her skirt down to her knees.

“Have you ever considered going to China?”

“Oh, so that's what you're getting at? You mean I should feel bad about buying things made in China. That must be it, because they're government is so oppressive and their labor conditions are atrocious, and blah blah blah.” She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.  She had read it all on Facebook.  The sky scrapers full of underpaid workers making every electronic gadget imaginable, the slums in India where children collected hair from the trash to make wigs.  Poverty was a fact of life and always had been.

“It doesn't matter about how you feel about it.” The bum was tapping his fingers together and looking up at the balloon as it drifted above the fourth story food court. “You can feel bad about it, you can feel terrible. You can feel apathetic or even good about it.” 

“Obviously you feel a particular way about it,” Wanda said with a sigh. She too was watching the balloon that seemed to take its time gaining altitude.  She prepared for the man to launch into a rant about politics or some such nonsense.

“Yes I do. But you should at least be aware that every dollar you spend is a vote for how you really want the world to be. Feelings are really beside the point.”  And that was all.  They both watched the balloon for a moment in silence before Wanda realized he was finished.

Wanda frowned and looked down into her empty cup. “That's absurd. I can't change the way the world is. Ever since I picked up a National Geographic when I was a child I knew that I was lucky to be born in America. Some people don't have it so easy, but that's not my fault.”

The man chuckled.

“What gives you the right to lecture me?” Wanda asked.

“Am I lecturing you?”

Wanda looked at his filthy denim jacket and pants. There were dark liver spots under his thinning white hair, and from this close she could smell something sour emanating from him.

“Listen, I've had a nice time chatting with you, but my lunch break is almost up. Try and find some place to clean yourself up, because frankly, you stink.” She reached into her purse and retrieved a ten dollar bill and placed it on the slatted wood between them.

“Only credit, huh?”

A gust of wind rose up and carried the bill off the seat.

“Whoa!” Wanda said and bent over to retrieve it before it blew out of reach. “Hey, if you're going to guilt trip me, I'll just keep it.” But she was already extending her hand to the man.

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” the bum said. He placed a dirty palm over his heart and bowed to her as he took the bill with his left hand.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“My friend Doug has two terriers that need some food.”

“Dog food?” She frowned and regretted giving him a half hour's wage.

“What would you like me to do with it, sweetheart?”

“Don't you need to take the bus somewhere?”

“No, I said that because without a dog, I wouldn't get a red cent. Besides, the bus to the U-district is free.”

“Oh, yes, well it was interesting to meet you.”

“Adam.”

“Yes, right Adam.” She considered giving her name, but then he might want to shake her hand.

As she walked across the square she wondered if he was looking. He was old enough to be her father, old enough to be her grandfather even. She stopped at the intersection and looked back, but he was already gone.

Common Courtesy

Didn't she know how she looked? The mole by her nose had several hairs growing out of it and it seemed that tweezers should have made it into the basket.
“Have a nice day,” Tom said as he placed the receipt in the plastic bag.
“Oh, I always do honey.”
Her jerky gate made him wince. How could he stop himself from judging people like this? He didn't know this woman, what her struggles were, or anything about her really. He gave a quick shake and cleared his mind before scanning the next items coming down the belt.
“Hi Tom, how are you doing today?”
There was something slightly familiar in the voice and face, but there were simply too many people to catalog.
“Oh, fine, just fine, how about yourself?”
“Well, Stan and Marsha were at it again this morning. You know it's hard for me to believe that siblings can be so nasty to each other. And of course it's up to me to try and maintain the peace, but honestly its these little trips away from the chaos that I need.”
The woman wasn't looking at him as she rifled through her purse. Tom often heard little snippets like this, and as was his usual, he put on the sympathetic face and nodded in agreement.
“Well I hope you bring the troops in line.”
The cold shock of rage in her blue eyes caught him off guard. He handed the bag of milk, cereal, bread and eggs over to her and felt his smile fade.
“Excuse me?” she said ripping the bag out of his hands.
“I'm sorry mam, I um...” He felt at a loss for the appropriate cliché apology. The laser beam glare of intensity emanating from her was so unexpected, but like a deer in headlights, he was too startled to look away.
“Tom, when I come in here and--” Tom braced himself, but the woman dropped off abruptly at the rattling sound of carts as they came through the double doors. She glanced back up at him and gave two small shakes of her head that were hardly perceptible before spinning away, her heels clacking on the tile floor.
“Wow, what was that about?”
Tom looked up to see a heavy set man in jeans and a flannel shirt. A case of beer and a bag of chips rolled down the conveyer belt.
“It must have been something I said, but I'll be damned if I know,” Tom said.
“Probably just her time of the month then,” the man rocked back on his heels and chuckled. Tom was disgusted by the way he shamelessly watched the woman walking away.
“Did you find everything alright?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, I sure did,” he said.
Tom logged in a few more hours of pleasantries and small talk. His elbow was beginning to act up on him again, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Just before he was about to hang up his apron and name tag, he heard his name on the intercom.
“Hi Tom, could you have a seat?” Larry had replaced Jim as the store manager a year ago. His manicured nails and expensive suits seemed out of place in the store, but it was his pungent cologne that was the running joke.
“Well, I was about to head out, but what can I do for you Larry?”
“Please sit Tom.”
Tom sat down and felt immediate relief. The faux leather swivel back chair had some sort of shock absorber. Larry's Formica desk had neat stacks of paper and a sleek looking laptop that was closed. There were no family pictures in the office, but an enormous abstract painting in varying shades of red hung on the wall.
“Tom, I need to ask you about what happened today.” Larry said.
“Sure Larry, go ahead and ask me,” Tom smiled, but Larry's expressionless face seemed to harden. His hands were folded on his desk and for a moment neither of them said anything.
“Tom, do you agree that it is your duty to be polite and courteous to our customers?”
“Well, of course Larry.” He didn't appreciate the condescending tone of the manager that was at least ten years his junior.
“Are you aware that I was on the phone with a certain Samantha King for two hours this afternoon trying to smooth things over?”
It didn't take long to make the connection.
“Well no, how could I possibly know what you've been up to Larry? I've been down stairs all day, but I also don't know what it was that got the woman so upset.” Larry nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“So you do recall the woman I'm referring to?”
“Yes, she came in and started talking about her kids, and I wished her luck and she got all huffy.”
“You wished her luck?”
“Yes, I mean like I said, I have no clue what got her so upset.”
Larry picked up a gold cased pen and jotted something down on a yellow legal pad.
“Tom, she told me something very different.” Tom waited a moment for Larry to continue and raised his eyebrows.
“And?”
“Do you remember exactly what you said?” Larry asked. He tapped the end of the pen on the pad of paper three times to the word 'exactly'.
“No, I don't remember what I said verbatim, but I guarantee you it was both friendly and courteous.”
“You don't remember?”
“Larry, could you just tell me what the hell this is all about.” Another pause and then Larry swiveled to look at the painting on the wall.  The theatrical run around was beginning to get to Tom as was the sickening sweet aroma of the man's cologne.
“Mrs. King informed me of the calloused thing you suggested.”
“What? I did no such thing!”
“What did you say Tom? I must say I find it a bit disturbing that you don't remember.”
“Jesus Larry! You can't expect me to remember everything I say to everyone throughout the day and--”
“Watch yourself Tom, I will not tolerate insubordination.”
“Alright, alright,” Tom said. He took a deep breath and nearly gagged on the room's fumes. “Larry, just tell me, what did she say I said. Could you please just tell me what this is about.”
Larry was still looking at the painting.
“Tom, have you ever served in the military?”
“No.”
“Do you have any family members that have served?”
“Sure, I think my uncle was in the marines, but why do you ask?”
Larry nodded a few times and then swiveled to face Tom, the golden pen tapping an erratic rhythm on the pad.
“Can you imagine what it's like to lose someone you love in war?”
“Oh, did Mrs. King lose someone? Is that what this is about?” Tom was struggling to put the pieces together. None of this made any sense.
“Well yes Tom. Mrs. King lost her husband in the war two months ago.”
“That's awful.”
“So when you go and start suggesting that her children join the war effort, you can see how this poor widow might become upset?” Larry placed the pen down next to the yellow pad, folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk.
“What? I didn't tell her to do that!”
“Well, what exactly did you say? Because according to Mrs. King you told her to enlist her two children.”
Tom's mind reeled. He went over the encounter that had started out so ordinary. What had he said? He remembered her talking about her kids bothering her, or maybe they were fighting with her or one another. Everything was fuzzy in his memory accept for the woman's look of rage. Those blue eyes were so bright and vibrant in his mind. The perfumed air was beginning to make his stomach churn.
“Larry, that is not at all what I said. I think I said something about keeping her kids in line or something, but--”
“Wait a minute. You told me that you wished her luck a moment ago.” Larry tapped at what he had scrawled on the pad.
“Well yes, I mean I think, but I certainly didn't--”
“Perhaps 'certainly' isn't the correct word Tom. It seems more and more that you are anything but certain.”
Tom opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He knew that other clerks could remember names and faces, but after fifteen years in the store, everyone seemed to coagulate into an amorphous nondescript entity. If someone had a feature that stuck out, Tom tried to overlook it. He felt that he was getting better and better at not casting judgment. Above all and he was sure to remain polite and positive.
“Unfortunately Tom, Mrs. King has made some demands and doesn't want to let this go. I won't get into the details of what she's threatened, but suffice it to say that the store would suffer, and I can't let that happen.”
“I'm sorry Larry, I still don't know what it is I said, but I will be sure to apologize.” The sour feeling in his stomach was accompanied by growing tension in his shoulders.
Larry nodded and his eyes softened. “Tom, I'm afraid she doesn't want an apology.”
“Well, what does she want?” But he already knew. Larry looked down at his desk and made a few more marks on the yellow paper.
“I'm sorry Tom. You've been a great asset to this store. Truly exceptional Tom, but Mrs. King has--”
“Just wait a God Damn minute Larry!”
“Watch you're language. This is the type of thing that got you in this mess to begin with.”
“Larry, you sit there like some sort of--” Tom stopped. He couldn't go on without further damaging his future.
“I'm sorry Tom.”
“Don't be sorry Larry. Don't say anything more. Please, just let me fix this.”
 “I'm sorry Tom.”

Doug and Maple

“Any day now Maple.”

“You mean any year. They don't even know you're alive. Not in any meaningful way at least. Even if they did, what makes you think they'd care?”

“Why do you always have to embrace the negative?”

“Doug, you've never seen humans for what they are. They kill us. They make houses out of us. If you became one of them, you'd do the same thing.”

It was a conversation both of them were tired of having. After five decades of debating the merits and faults of humanity, they had agreed to disagree. But every couple years Doug had to pipe up and say something stupid. Maple was convinced that Doug's fixation was not only irrational but a symptom of some illness. Perhaps he was carrying a beetle of some sort under his bark that whispered all this nonsense.

“Not everyone is like that. Remember that kid who climbed you?”

“Oh, the little brat that ripped off my branches a decade ago?”

“That boy loved you Maple!”

“He just wanted to get up high. I was so scared the little guy was going to fall out of me and hurt himself. Human's aren't very bright.”

“Not very bright? Do you remember when those guys were able to telepathically greet each other over the internet?” It was a absurd question. Of course Maple remembered. They had both felt the WiFi signal transmit and were duly impressed.

“So they're finally beginning to wake up. But you and I are awake. We know what is real and they still don't. They can already talk to each other in the garbled language, but they can't hear what's really going on.”

“But they're close. They're getting there, and when they find me--”

“Doug, they will never learn about you or me. And like I have said thousands of times, even if they do, they won't care about you or me. Any of us.”

Doug looked up at the small cotton puff of a cloud. No rain today. That was alright. The cloud muttered an apology before dissipating completely.

Another decade passed.

“See how many they planted! Did you feel the love Maple?”

“Yes Doug, I did, but it's nothing more than self preservation. They're getting desperate.”

“No, I think they're waking up. They're right on the edge and just need a little nudge.”

“Doug, it's too late. The Amazon is gone, and...” It hadn't rained in over a year and neither of them wanted to mention anything to do with water.

Doug had heard Maple's sobs a few months earlier. The poor girl was losing her leaves in August. He had tried to think of something nice to say, but she became furious with him for even pondering pitying her.

“We need to get out of this soil Maple. You and I need to make it, and I know it sounds selfish and I should be more empathetic with our kind, but I just can't help but feel that everything the humans are doing will pan out.”

“Pan out? You mean that they'll be okay?” Maple was furious, but Doug looked at her with such hope and earnest belief that she burst into laughter. A paper thin wisp of bark curled upward in the sun, and though it burned like a heat blister Maple's laughter spun outward.

“Have you ever been happy being a tree Doug? I mean seriously. You always talk about humans and how wonderful you think they are, but what about you? What about your life? It seems like you waste all your time marveling over what you can never have.”

“Once again, it seems to me that you are taking the glass is half full approach.”

“There is no glass Doug. There is no water.” Immediately after mentioning the word, Maple regretted it. Doug softened his gaze.

“We're going to be okay, Maple. Don't worry, they'll save us.”

The little rock around the little fire ball in the little galaxy spun and spun. Time flexed its grip on mortality and humanity continued to innovate. Maple and Doug listened to it all with the critical awareness of two souls awaiting a miracle.

Futility Monkey

Panic isn't the word. I don't know if Mid-Life-Crisis sums it up either. How about loser? Sure, I'll embrace that. I'll wave that flag, and I do so with a grin of despair, smearing my mottled complexion of woe and confusion. No amount of books or videos I consume can adequately mute the raging of the demon of drive that seems to have pricked its ears up recently. What happened? It's difficult to surmise, but it appears my reflection is becoming a bit less muddied. A tad more clarified, and I see the waste of space and time that is me.

So many of us now. We humans are mold on a piece of bread, that is the earth, and we are consuming it with ravenous abandon. And like mold, there will be nothing useful left once devoured. Unlike mold, what was green and flourishing will dry to a crisp and die.

So why does this monkey perched upon my shoulders holler about my lazy good for nothingness? I don't know. It breeds anxiety and incites me to write shit such as this. I don't know what to do, and what's more, I lack the drive to follow through. I have no ambition and everything in life comes easy. Paralyzed with food stamps, and a smidgen of disability pay, I sit in the wealthiest nation on earth. The planet spins and I sit. The youtubes stream, the music thumps, and I see the reality of my life for what it is.

I am less than nothing because I take up resources. I turn the bread, that is this earth, to useless mush. It's true that I don't take up many resources, and when I consider the 8 billion people mulling around, I feel less of a burden. They crank out products, they forge relationships, they live life to the fullest or struggle for survival. They churn and burn and scream to the heavens as the wealthiest toast their success with their peers. And me? And my purpose? I thought it was writing or perhaps it was making music. Then I thought that poetry or perhaps digitally enhancing video footage would be my calling. But no. Alas, without the hungry belly and grim reaper threatening to take me, I lack the incentive to create.

But this monkey. This demon of anxiety and deprecation that destroys my ability to appreciate what I produce is calling for a much more radical solution. Know thyself. It's an old proverb and one that echos in my mind when I'm at my highest peaks and lowest valleys. Does it matter? Without knowing the answer of life's big questions, namely, what happens after death, it seems that suicide can be ruled out. Eight billion is a lot. Perhaps the solution is to see the bigger picture. But what if life is eternal? Will I not be punished in the next go around for my buzz killing slothful indulgence? If there is a hell, it is my fate. But as it is my fate, and there is nothing I can do to change it, I can only hope that whatever started this whole mess is summoned to atone for the catastrophe that is life.

Sharp teeth dig into meat and pain is inflicted in a world that eats itself. The weight of consciousness is heavy, but things like money and material ease drive the human into a mad competitive frenzy of attainment. Some turn away, but how rare is that? Sometimes someone with a fortune will drop out, but often it is the weak and confused that allow their minds to be swept clean and embrace doctrines of dogma and spirituality. It is usually they that deny their flesh to strengthen their spirit.

Perhaps it is evolution that created this monkey of mine. Does my mind realize it is trapped within a broken body? Is it the hundred thousand years of evolution locked in my DNA that cry out to be challenged? Is it God? There is nothing to do and nothing to be done accept live and let live. Bacon and eggs from factory farms and thank you China for everything you've made. What more? Shall I write my story? I do have a story. But the voice of futility bombards my will to do so. Is there not enough to read? And what inspiration, if any, could I bestow upon anyone to make any difference?

My view is too global and education has corrupted my sense of responsibility. Nietzsche and nihilism compete with Jesus and Buddha, but in either case my life and efforts add up to zero. If my soul is eternal, I hereby plead to whoever created it to spare me the karma of my deserved atonement. I have consumed much and produced very little. I have indulged much and abstained seldom. Forgive me? How can one be created and ask to be forgiven? No, perhaps it is the concept of guilt that is the true evil. Maybe it is the monkey that is taunting me into action that I should seek to destroy. But tomorrow and the next day, what am I to do in this suit of useless skin, this paralyzed meat suit?

Pleasure is hard to come by and sharp pins and needles threaten to submerge my peace of mind into a sea of true discomfort. But the physical is beyond my control. What is, simply is, and there is only moment by moment that I should dwell in. But life! How cruel a God, if there is one. Hard teeth sink into muscle and tear tendon from bone. And what for? What is it all about?

A job. Help American's consume Chinese goods. Help friends live more comfortably. Help entertain. Help uplift. Help raise the vibe because.... the monkey is no good. He needs to be vanquished. If I do have a soul, it cries out for vindication. Circles and circles and dead ends of reasoning have made me think the towel should be thrown in the ring. Know thyself, loser.