Late-night Excuses

I’ve been away for a bit and don’t have time to explain. It’s late and I have shit to do, like sleep. This is just another short reminder, sort of to myself, that Father Time isn’t waiting for me. Don’t get too happy; he’s not waiting for you either. He’s a crafty fucker with a pretty failsafe plan.

Right when you think you have him by the balls, he just slips away and throws you in some weird submissive porn pose that you never thought was possible. Oh well, hopefully it’s at least with a member of the sex that you’re into. Probably not, though.

A week left of school and you’re out of excuses. We’re all out. Excuses just don’t hold; never do. The quicker we can get out of that line of thought, the happier we’ll be.

They’re all around us – the non-complainers. They’re in wheelchairs, missing limbs, lost children to bullets or gangs, or something else too heinous for our own realities. They’re the ones who get the shit jobs, get spit on, clean up our messes, take out our trash, fix our cars, clean our toilets… Jackie Robinson had it written in his contract that he wouldn’t react when the fans spit on him. Christ.

Excuses – seriously. What’s the point?


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