My heart goes out to the poor and beaten down. Come back heart! It never returns. Unlike my regressions. They are my imaginary friends. Only everyone can see them. And they won’t speak to me. ’Can’t we talk it over guys?’ No. They won’t. Yes, it’s true, I am very tired. But who isn’t? And besides, that’s no excuse for this. I’m sorry, so sorry, for what the eternal dentist does to you, under my good name.
I stopped that story. But here’s a longer one: At the age of 11, the doctors all told me, and my mother, that I was an accident. My mother, her hair curled in fright, looked over at me, gasped, turned back to the doctors and said, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ They conceded that they didn’t know. My mother, a lawyer of some regard, sued the pants of them. Not in a sexual way. She just took all their money. And so that’s the story explaining my immense education. You see, she used the millions she’d won in court to set me up very well, sending me to the finest schools. When I was finished, she sent me back to them again just to make sure it all sunk in. She was very concerned about my future. Especially as she had ‘the gift’ and had literally seen my future long before my birth. ‘You can’t change my destiny ma!’ I said to her. ‘Shut up.’ She would reply, hitting me with a mangrove root and chanting the lyrics of Rolling Stone songs at me with a druid-esque intonation. This was her attempt at changing things. But all it ever did was anger the gods. The few remaining ones anyway. Once one of them came through the window to tell me how angry he was. ‘The key to happiness,’ he was telling me once. ‘Is to crush your enemies through holy war.’ He handed me a revolver and winked. We had some good times the Gods and I. Later I told my school principal all about it and he called me a liar so I fired all six rounds into his belly.
Ah, hell. The truth is I went to a public school and my mother was a bishop. Sorry for crapping on like that.
Giving up is just another word for nothing left to do.