Don't Get on the Bus!

"GET ON THE BUS!" He yelled again to a girl standing outside the station. "GET ON THE BUS!" And, oh, the things I wanted to jam into that drunk kid's larynx.

Ordinarily, exposure to his lot would have me questioning the merit in continuing to live if punks like him could do it and make it work, but I'm getting better about things like that. I have largely ceased making generalizations about the human condition based on the actions of retards -- generalizations specifically designed to make me despair.

Well, technically, since I am discussing it, I suppose I do still make those generalizations; I am just more willing to acknowledge that they're not necessarily correct.

But they probably are.

I shouldn't judge, though. I have gained a keen understanding of the "get right-blitzed" imperative (and how enjoyable it can actually be). Maybe this is a symptom of my age bracket. The jobs we end up in, the constant transitioning. I was at the liquor store and I saw a Jack Daniel's display featuring a picture of a pale man about my age, stubbled, with clear blue eyes and a faint smile on his face. The text identified him as "The Whiskey Generation".

Sweet Jesus. Can we do a little better, please?

Probably not.

On Wednesday night, Smart (a coworker) and I were drunk and high and walking next to Junction Creek, which is little more than fast moving sewage. It weaves its way through the entire city and there are empty bottles of Lysol and Listerine under its bridges. This is where we were standing when Smart decided to regale me with the tale of his first fight in Burdusy. I enjoyed the story -- I love talking to Smart -- but was acutely aware that we were engaged in typical drunk loser talk. I then felt obligated to loudly mention Smart's Bio-Med degree, just in case anyone was listening.

Why is someone with a degree in Biomedicine working at a call center, you ask? I don't know. That's just how things are here.

Later that evening, when we started walking again, I commented on how pretty the nearby dead trees were. They were black and eerily featureless against the pale orange clouds hanging low over the city. Smart said the trees where he's from are "twice as better."

"Are they bigger?" I asked.

"No, but they're twice as better." He stopped walking. "Look at these trees," he said. "They grew out of Junction Creek. They're starved. So they're pretty, yeah, but not natural."

Very true.