Day One Hundred and Sixty Nine-Note to Self By Chaos The outcome of your day is not determined by the carelessly discarded bubble gum that dove under your boot as you stepped out of your Dodge Ram; that selfsame gum, that refuses to release its grip of death between asphalt and Dan Post, possesses no consciousness to purpose the delay of your busy span of hours, nor sentience to aggravate in any willing way, though it has accomplished that unset goal to great effect, as evidenced by your elevated blood pressure, pounding pulse, and increasingly colorful vocabulary. That bottle cap, even less alive than its predecessor, did not move to intercept your foot, unbooted to scrape off the Hubba and the Bubba cemented to your cowboy sole, nor did it bite your toe out of any ravenous hunger, though I’m sure that’s how it felt. You noted the rust on the fingernail clippers used to snip away the jagged skin around the wound inflicted by the Coca Cola Bottling Company, and should have foreseen the ensuing infection. When you changed to more comfortable footwear, your shoelaces did not sprout Medusa heads and untie themselves to trip your errant foot and introduce your countenance to the cold concrete that felt neither sympathy nor regret at the crimson flow from your broken nose and split lip. Cursing these unknowing, unfeeling artifacts accomplished little, as they lack the capacity to comprehend or care, having no time to waste on your petty human concerns, being occupied with their own complete lack of thought. None of these things were the fault of the result, nor anything more than a certain lack of attention on your part, or perhaps just some seriously well planned bad luck. You must realize that, at the end of the day, what will be, will be, what occurs, occurs, what is, is, in short… …shit happens.
Posted on: Tue, 24 Sep 2013 05:23:07 +0000
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