I've been dirt and I don't care
Humor in horror: there seems to be no end to it, the subtle nuance of disaster which starts with a chuckle and ends in an ache, tears streaming down your face as you grasp at your stomach from the pain. Life takes on the nature of a television sitcom sometimes, with the requisite laugh track in the back, the smallest indignities eliciting the stock laugh until you find yourself a master of comedy, a primetime television series in the making. It wouldn’t be all too impressive, though, in the end. It would probably just get people down.
Ivy seems to have snatched away my unemployment benefits, fucking up the entire weekend, and stretching out into the foreseeable future, like a stain on a tablecloth, stretching out from its center and seeping out into infinity, ruining a houseguest’s pants. But, ah, well: it was bound to happen this way. There was probably already a park bench with my name stamped on it, its existence situated solely on my own waking existence in the world, waiting precisely for this moment, when we would intersect. And some things are like that.
If you need me, you know where I’ll be, face paint and motioning to the masses, a real sad clown.
3 comments:
you can camp on my frameless futon rather than that park bench anytime :)
you should hit up the local hannaford. if only... i think i would literally explode with delight!
The park, from my relatively untrained vantage point, seems to be a way better place for being homeless than the Central Avenue Hannaford. While, technically, you would be in closer proximity to grocery items at the Hannaford, the park puts you in a place where you would see more people that you know, and thus probably increases your chances of getting a free sandwich or something. Not that I've been putting that much thought into it or anything.
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