I am sick to death of the Internet.
I am sick of the Immediate gavel Banging and judgement by people whose sole stature for doing so is a cell phone or internet access.
You don’t like shit, fine. Say you dont like it all day long.
But all this Endless Punditry by people who are barely equipped to talk about THEMSELVES, much less topics of import.
Cut that shit out. You.are.all.killing.me.
What’s Killing you?
What season is it? I’m confused. We had frost on the ground this morning, and this afternoon it will be in the 70s. It’s kinda like spring went AWOL and winter and summer are trying to cover for her. They may think that no one is noticing, but all they are managing to do is confuse the snot out of me. My brain (which isn’t too reliable to begin with), keeps talking to itself: “Do I plant? Do I not plant? Should I take the panels off the barn? Or is it still too cold? But the barn is getting too hot during the day with them on; I should take them off. No, the babies might get cold”…and so on.
Alternate universe Russell Crowe sits in the shade outside his grotty trailer in the Bush, a ballcap pulled low over his face. It is high noon and brutally hot.
He watches a dust devil spin by, papers whipping in its train.
So he got arrested again, so what? So they let him go because his heart can’t bear the strain of another night in the drunk tank. (Bloody copper joking to some sod down the hall “ain’t rummies s’posed to be skin & bones? This fella’s big as the side of a house.”)
Who gives a damn any more, really?
He calls inside the house. “‘Nother one. NOW.”
His wife steps out the door and regards him with cold eyes. “Get it yourself, blighter.”
He turns slowly, teeth grinding. “D’ya want me to come over there?”
“Good try,” she says, “you’d start wheezin’ two feet off, now wouldn’t ya?”
She laughs and waves a hand. Her laughter is like glass breaking inside his brain. He struggles, one side to the other, to stand. Eventually he does, only to find the ribbed lawn chair still hugging his bum. With a roar he knocks it off and lurches to the screen door. “BLOODY BITCH,” he yells, “YOU KNOW WHAT I AM? I’M AN OUTLAAAAAAAAWWWW!!”
He pauses, for a moment yanked out of his slow-spiraling rage by wonder at the odd way he emphasized the final word, drew it out. That’s not even my line, he thinks and then he wonders what THAT means.
“Right, then, ‘Outlaw’,” his wife says coolly from the dark inside the trailer, “open the door and catch yer bloody beer.”
He wrenches it open and mounts the first step to come inside and teach her a lesson. Then it comes hurtling out of the dark, the ice cold beer, and strikes him in the nose, hard. He stumbles backwards, falls, and dust rises around his bulk.
He stays there. When his wife finally comes to check on him later he is snoring loudly. There are tear tracks in the grime about his eyes.
