Pastoral Genocide


I’m a Lawyer
October 25, 2008, 6:56 am
Filed under: Writing | Tags: ,

Most people wear their seatbelts, and we’ve got the polls prove it. I don’t, though. I don’t wear my seatbelt and I can’t fathom that I ever will.

Think about: life is pretty fucking safe. We’ve got hospitals with dialysis machines and mechanical hearts. Can you believe that? Mechanical hearts. We’ve got nutrition facts and allergy warnings on the back of nearly everything that we eat. We’ve got automobiles with airbags. We’ve got houses with security alarms and neighbors with homespun values. It’s safer now to be a human than its ever been and I find that a little disfranchising.

I’ve always wanted cancer. Not the bad kind, but not like, you know, prostate cancer, either. I want real cancer, I want the end to be looming and unsure. I want to beat it. I want wires and tubes to connect my arm to machines, strange looking machines that beep and whine. I want to emerge scathed and wise. I want to go to parties and tell stories about how I looked death in the eyes and I didn’t back down. I never back down.

I want to get stabbed. I want to grasp death and hold it in my palm. I want to lie on a sidewalk, at night, in dark puddle of my own blood. I want it to spread like wings across the pavement and I want to stare up at the streetlights as they spin soft cones of light and I want to think, is this it? I want to wake up in a hospital room. I want a chest covered in scars.

I want to fly in a plane that falls from the sky. I want to know what it feels like to come crashing from the heavens to the earth. I imagine a great feeling of weightlessness, but I want to feel it. Empirically, spiritually. In want to survive; I want to wake up to the screams of the injured and the feel the crisp heat of jet fuel as it burns against my back. I want to hear sirens and I want to be pulled from the yawning unknown by strong hands wearing blue latex gloves.

Mostly, though, I want a divorce. I caught her fucking some asshole in our bed. He was painted in the overtones of the working man and he was riding her like a rented mule. In our bed, my bed.  The bed we bought right after we got married. They were sweating and moving together and making noise. The thing that struck me was that he was bald. Bald. Can you believe that? I’ve got my hair and a little bit of money. Sarah, I said once, in front of everyone that we know that I loved you and I would forever. I don’t, anymore. And that’s ok. But you could have at least picked an attractive man, a man with hair and an office job. A man with a automobile nicer than that shitty blue pickup that was parked in the drive. A man that wasn’t a card carrying member of the Teamsters or the UAW. Fuck the proletariat; fuck the working stiff. Of all the things you’ve ever done to me, this was and is the worst. I won’t, can’t, forget this. I can’t forgive this. He was bald. He looked like a carpenter or a mechanic or a convenience store clerk. I am young and I have my hair and I’m a lawyer.

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