This One is For…


I only remember a handful of base-
ball games in my life. One of them was played on
Astroturf at Busch Stadium in Mizzou.
I don’t remember meeting anyone there.
In fact, I’m positive I didn’t, because
at that point I was … well … happily married
isn’t the right term, but it’s the first one
which comes to mind. Fat and happy’s another
phrase I could use to describe myself back then,
but once again, it wouldn’t be accurate.
At least not completely, but that’s not the point.
I ramble and wander when I speak and breathe.
Midnight Writer? Yeah … that would be me. Sorry.
Not sorry. Shun. Unshun. I’m 36 to-
day. Yay! Hoo-ray! Who gives a shit, eh? Birthdays
are for losers and so is suicide. There’s
no coming back from that one. Kill yourself
and you’re trapped in Hell forever. Or you could
run to Whataburger and order a small
fry with a chicken fajita taco and
wonder aloud why that makes no sense as the
demons and angels surrounding you stare with
a mixture of terror, apprehension and
revulsion. Angels hate humans more than de-
mons do. Angels are dicks. Especially Arch-
Angels named Michael, who can suck on salty
if they see fit, but if they do, God will rip
off their wings and beat them to … holy shit … it’s
The Holy Shit. Damned right. All right. Hey Taylor…


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