Age

I looked down at my hands tonight and saw not youth, but papery, scaly mitts, scarred by time, sunlight, manual labor, and cold. I'm 34, but to look at the backs of my hands you'd think I was much older. It's interesting that I've hit a point in my life at which the signs of almost constant stress, bad habits, and environmental trauma are beginning to manifest themselves in my physical appearance. My hair has decided that rather than remain in place on my head that it would prefer to leave the northern climes and reside on my back. That's not cool. I don't want to be nappy back-hair bald guy, but perhaps that's my lot in life. It seems that every morning expedition to leave the womb-like warmth and security of my bed is getting to be much more difficult than it used to be. Oh, and something new always aches every morning; this morning for instance it was my right ankle, not sure why? all I did yesterday was walk around like a normal human being.

Oh well, another day, another creaking joint, and possibly a stomach ulcer that is enjoying remaining at the limits of my pain tolerance...

Until the next one...

Getting Older in St. Paul

A Limerick for Paddy

There once was a woman from India,
who bored and confused students of literature,
Until one night, with all of their might,
they revolted and said "we're not in to ya".

Extended Similies are like really long similies

Sometimes I wonder if Lit analysis with a class full of English majors is like watching paint dry. It seems to me that there are always a few people in any given class that feel that it is their duty to bore the rest of us fucking senseless with their inane attempts at wit. In truth, all it ends up accomplishing is making them look like a fucktard. Newsflash: sometimes a poem about a red wheelbarrow is just a poem about a red wheelbarrow, not some convoluted attempt at philosophical contemplation about a fucking motive society, or the end of days...

I get tired of people who like to hear themselves talk; write a fucking blog, at least we can choose to ignore it then. In class it's a different story, I can't concentrate on zoning out when your scratchy high-pitched adolescent voice scythes it's way into my inner ear, and imprints itself onto my brain in a vain attempt to somehow gain my approval of the drivel emanating from your face hole. Give it a fucking rest, and sit back and listen; you might learn something from someone who has something to say that's of merit. That is possibly a concept that may be alien to you, but people grow up eventually.

Anyway, now that I feel terrible for sinking to the level of outright contempt for another human, I think I'll sign off.....

Until next time, which if you're keeping track will be a few months....

Frustrated in St. Paul