Reuse, Recycle?

I now drive like the old men I used to yell at.

I get up after a long shift at the computer and my eyes cross. I wonder why I feel drunk without having touched a drop. My ankles snap so loudly when I stand up that my guests gasp. I turn up the TV so high that the dog barks in terror even during Nivea commercials. I too often stare off into the distance vainly trying to recall if I took my meds‘.

Oh lordy, I sometimes actually call them ‘meds‘. I am still in my fifties. This sucks.

I have to turn this boat around and gather up some of the wasted youth I tossed about so irresponsibly. Pick up the threads. Maybe I can re-use that sparkling stuff I took for granted.

OlderMan_Drugs-1
Similar — but for me please add a full, luxuriant head of fabulous hair and get rid of that hellish checked shirt

I will go on a week-long 700 mile trip and discover that I didn’t bring clothes or toiletries. My bag will be stuffed with cans of Lucky, Doritos & gum, though. I will only have $25 for gas, borrowed from my Granny. I shall charm lovely young lasses just long enough to convince them to buy me pizza (I will send a postcard later, honestly). I will distort and reinvent the known limits of the human skeleton by sleeping in an unfinished basement arched backwards over a bass drum, a can of the aforementioned Lucky balanced carefully on my navel. If you think that sounds hard, you are right.

I will awake every morning convinced that there is high adventure at hand, hiding in the garbage can compartment until the recycling truck arrives and then popping out in an apron and horn rim glasses, holding a platter of cookies. I will not give a hoot if someone writes ‘Awe’ when they mean ‘Aww’. When moving to a new place I will load the truck with my belongings and then just drive to the dump, huck out my whole life, and start again. When forced into a choice between bus fare or one more pint, you just know what I’ll decide….

Stomach-Drop2
An average day in my youth

 

OK, upon review, that was ridiculous.

I’ll take the snapping ankles and my extra-large hopper of meds and keep tacking down the road at 11 miles an hour, never again frightening the poor man driving the garbage truck.

VRD

 

 

Vince R Ditrich ©2018 :: All Rights Reserved :: Random Note Generator – A One Man Magazine :: www.randomnotegenerator.com

 

 

 

 

 

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