The Day is LOST

I’m fairly well fucked today. Check that, not fairly well fucked but rather fully. I’m in a miniscule life raft, at the epicenter of a Perfect Storm, sharks are circling, and I just found a leak. Basically sitting in the corner wide-eyed and crying, muttering out loud about “There were just too many of them. We couldn’t hold the line. Danny. Danny’s head was in my lap. Just his head. Where did Danny’s body go? Danny? THERE WERE JUST TOO MANY OF THEM GODDAMNIT!!!” I can’t function. I’m pouring water from my glass into my lap. I’m typing into my scarf. I picked up my phone and tried to call a tree. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind.

What caused this post-hurricane wreckage in my person today?

A) Acid?
B) Lobotomy?
C) Family tragedy?
D) None of the above

The answer is D. I walked out the door this morning WITHOUT my daily planner. It just isn’t in my satchel. I’ve looked, many times, despite knowing I left it on the kitchen island and my wife having confirmed as much. What do you do? Yes, I realize my iPhone has at least 69 applications for this but I don’t give a shit. I want to feel the planner in my hand. I want trees to die to get it there. I am comforted by the sight of my beautiful handwriting on cream stock (My cursive is routinely mistaken for a woman’s. In the St. Vincent De Paul handwriting challenges of my youth the last men standing were always Zach and Chrissy. I still maintain my handwriting was superior to Chrissy’s. Sure, she had some chickish accoutrements such as exaggerated loops and theatrical dotting of I’s. But ask someone who wants to get to the heart of the matter whose cursive was superior; ask them off the record. They’re going Zach all the way, I guarangoddamntee it). I haven’t the foggiest what I’m supposed to do today, the weekend, anything. I worked out this morning. I can’t cross it off my to do list for the day until at the earliest 6pm. And that is assuming an on time train departure and being able to successfully side-step my daughter’s hug through the door tonight. As if that isn’t harrowing enough ponder this: What if someone asks if I can do something on some day beyond today? Such as, “Hey Zach, are you able to do beers on Thursday?” Um, how in the FUCK am I supposed to answer that?!?! If I find an old femur bone lying around I’m going to start smashing the shit out of people with it. My daily planner is critical to basic functioning. It is the wellspring from which I flow. Without my planner it is as though I never were. I don’t give a McMutherfuck if I could do the same, easier, on my iPhone. What if a gaggle of rowdy teens steals it on the L train? Then what am I doing late June of this year, genius? Only the teens will know.

Sitting in a dark, wet cave with no flint, no moonlight, no weapon, and I can hear the low growling begin. I just don’t know how hungry it is……..

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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