Despite my string of one-off posts that do nothing but wash my reputation in hideousness, I am back, just shy of five o’clock in the morning, ready to do battle with good taste again. I awoke in a worse mood than when I fell asleep, not a good way to start the day. But here I am, angry and searching for a fistfight with the word.
Actually, I wonder if a fistfight is what I’m after? Maybe it’s more of a fight to the death, a last-ditch effort to come to grips with a poisonous relationship with a life that doesn’t deserve more time on the planet. That’s possible, I suppose. That might explain the insomnia, the wretched dreams, the sour attitude that curdles milk with a simple sneer. Yet I walked outside onto the deck a few minutes ago and felt a sense of goodness wash over me at the same time the cool air seemed to wash anger away into the gentle skies. I find myself upset with the way the world turned out, the way decency succumbed to madness; yet the cool air suggests Donald Trump and his minions might not have completely overwhelmed goodness, at least not yet. So I’ll drink my coffee and plot ways in which decency may prevail, but I’ll keep a monstrous plot involving decapitation and disembowelment in my pocket, just in case.