The Neighborhood

Go on, boy.  

Bang it out. Then drink it in–irony tastes refreshingly bitter on the leading edge of a fifth decade.  So better to keep drinking while grinding through. 

Consuming the madness.  Choking on the chemicalization.  Calculating paths of least resistance across the face of an uncooperative schedule.

Because what’s another day of mittened mania, here in the hostile land of QD Donut Munchers?

Freaking out in the absence of never fitting in.  Always the weird one.  The one watching from the meadowed periphery of entanglement.  Living out of bags and boxes.  Running scared from a hunting Wolverine wolf pack of rabid mediocrity.  The native predators pushing out the immigrant fox at the expense of his gentle collaboration. 

Pressing somehow past self-inflicted boundaries.  Fingers ready on the keys.  Enduring the alienating complication of it all.  Because fuck the limitations.  They are just temporary roadblocks a hesitating brain tries throwing up. 

And they don’t have to mean anything.

At least not after spending a lifetime chasing down words.  Because it was somehow more satisfying than chasing tail.  Uplifting was more urbane than upskirt.  It was attractive being temporarily on the side of more refined angels–even literary bad boys get scared.  And occasionally need tender comfort.

Because words are fickle.  And elusive on another sleepless Ingham County night.  Words, like love, too often come with stipulations attached.  Or at the very least, expectations.  And old eyes often misunderstand the finer prints.  So it’s easy to miss the point.

Blind acceptance to the implied Terms of Service seems the expected pattern of behavior–who really has time to read my that shit?  But agreement is often the most expeditious avenue to instant gratification amidst a backdrop of tacky-tock disposable consumption. 

Because everyone is starving for validation.  Or attention.  Everyone thinks they are unique.  The ubiquitous Mr. Rogers conundrum.  But that sweatered asshole lied–ain’t none of us special.  We’re all just varrying levels of fucked up.  And most don’t even know what’s going on in our own lives, let alone right next door.

How could we ever be a good neighbor?  A good friend? A good lover?

So we stumble through.  Doing our best.  Trying to not cause damage. Attempting to build something durable in a throwaway world. But inevitably fucking something up.  Again.  Just bad enough that the cycle repeats in a never ending feedback loop of suburban insanity; just good enough to keep the vulnerable spark of hope alive.

Even if it’s for just one day more.

Or one more lonely Boulevard night, spent staring out the window, missing people I’m not even sure will ever miss me back.

Won’t you be my neighbor?

About Typewriter Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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