i'm so tired of all this running around. running around and around, across the country into another realm. a realm where my own existence is impossible. i don't have time to deal with my own existence. actually it is not the time that is the problem—it is the "how to deal with my life, i won't make any time to deal with it" problem. i just am. i exist. i patronize mcdonald's weekly, refusing to buy those stupid single serving cans of food. buy single cans of food, super absorbent maxi pads, and a ten pound bag of kitty litter. what a sorry excuse for an existence. yet it is mine i pay for it and pay for it. i work to exist. i'm sorry but i don't think of that as much of an existence. i can always go home, but wasn't it said once said you can never go home? and what exactly would i be going home to or for? my parents, that is it, nothing else holds me to that area of the country. so what is holding me to the northeastern section of this god forsaken shit hole of a country? nothing nada zip zilch zero splat flat out nothing. nothing that is but my own cowardice, cowardice that inhibits what could very possibly be a shining example of life in the fast lane. fast lane, no just a lane other than the bile lane in the middle of the road (although on that lane you have to swerve every once in a while to miss hitting a semi)—semi sweet existence that is more bitter than the stupid unforgivable tears that are shed at a moment's notice, tears that form for no stupid reason other than a damn hallmark commercial. does this happen to everyone or am i the only cheez whiz filled stupid clueless moron on the earth? no i really don't think of myself as moronic—ok, sometimes i am but then again who the hell isn't at least once in their lifetime? a lifetime that could span millennia upon millennia—does anyone really know when this all stops and when it stops do we really know it or are we just put on hold and forced to listen to elevator music and if so do we mind? are we tame after we die or are we more aggressive than we ever would have been? aggressive the only word a cheerleader truly knows how to spell, although they may not be able to define it, they sure as hell can give it a go in the spelling bee in fourth grade. fourth grade mrs bolam, a true leader, to be able to control a bunch of brats long enough so that somehow we all managed to learn our multiplication tables and move on to the fifth grade. fifth grade and i was venus the goddess of love, white sheet clad wearing gold mesh flip flops. i really don't think the goddess of love wore gold mesh flip flops but in fifth grade is anyone really paying attention? they paid attention to george logue (wow, pulled that name right out of the dusty cob webbed history racks in my mind) when he read his report and used the word HELL—a gasp of surprise swept through the class and nervous giggles escaped from the girls' mouths. that is when george became the guy to flirt with, he was so cool, so calm we never knew it was coming. sometimes like death. six years after high school graduation and george is still in college groping for that diploma in landscape artistry, probably still using the same inane tactics to impress the girls. he is no longer the guy to flirt with (he lost that a week after his bout with the need to curse for attention). the next week the guy to flirt with was joe mccormick. sixth grade and it was mr deible the teacher who let us listen to rock music while we did our homework—but i do go on. i still haven't figured out my adulthood life i will keep babbling endlessly to myself or whoever will appear to listen. i return to my dreadful life tomorrow. i ask you, to return to a life i hate and leave the guy i love—it really doesn't make any kind of sense does it?

—J. Dyson