For me, May has never been the cruelest month. I’d always left that designation for April, when Easter would roll around and God, in his magnificently malevolent bastard wisdom, would remind me–on a seeming increasingly regular up-the-ante basis as I got older–that he hated my ass, and picked that season to rain down reminders on me that the season had a preverse reverse:
“Not rebirth; rebeatdown, jerk”
And I was cool with that. The calendar would click and reciprocally in my brain a digit would flip telling me “the game’s afoot.” I’d hunker down, offer a less easily marked target, and ride out whatever plague He’d visit down upon me. Because, in a twist to my offhand religious determination as “Recovering Catholic,” I figured I was one up on Job, since I knew the brimstone shitstorm was coming.
May 2006 has changed all that. Now, I trust nothing. Man, beast, even barley and yeast, I trust nothing I see, hear, taste touch or feel. I’m on my own here.
Fuck you, and anyone riding sidekick with you.
You fuckers wrote me off as a chump.
Maybe your Adsense outta kicked in;
FUCK YOU. DIE.
BECAUSE I’M SURE AS HELL AIMING AT IT.
I quit. No more do I think I’m dealing with anything more than fucking American Idol dickshits who need a vicious whip.
