st re AM # 56

I’m concerned about the sump pump. It works when I test it, but, by testing it, it may not work on its own. This is my fear – that it won’t work on its own. So, that’s what I’m waiting for. I never thought I’d spend hours waiting for a sump pump to kick-in. To be clear, I’m doing other things, too. Like this. But the sump pump is on my mind. And, in a way, it is a blessing. There are only so many troubles I can keep an eye on. In sooth, I have not counted the maximum number of troubles that I can track, but the maximum cannot amount to very many. Nevertheless, it is a blessing, so to speak, to worry about a contraption rather than a human being. The machine either works or it doesn’t. One can either repair the machine or replace it. One should never fall in love with a machine, however. A machine cannot return love. It can work, or it can break. That might change someday; and when it does – when a machine can be programmed to behave irrationally, jealously, enviously and/or selfishly – then? We’re all fucked. Surely somebody somewhere is working on that eventuality. It’s all because “we can.” You climb it, why? “Because it’s there.” You fuck it (up), because you can. Because you will. That’s human nature. So. Better the sump pump than some babe. Of course, once the sump pump finally kicks on (or proves defective, prompting a call to the plumber), I’ll then go back to dwelling on the babe. Or some new babe… like the one at the delicatessen. Ah, but she’s too young for you. For me. For you. Thus, you won’t pursue it. Perhaps you’ll flirt (whatever that entails), when you’re feeling up to flirting (on those rare occasions), and that’ll be the end of it. Besides, you can’t trust waitresses or restaurant hostesses or cash register clerks because it’s their job to smile at you. It’s their job to laugh at your jokes and whatnot. Besides, I’m getting too old to flirt and mean it. The more evolved the species, the more complex the bullshit. Ants, for example, have no use for happiness (or sadness). Lucky them, eh? How much crap is it going to take for you to get off your fat ass and make something of that jerkface in the window who keeps laughing at your shit motives and brushes your teeth in the onion roll juice? When you don’t have the choice you seek to create liquid apple sauce and stuff it down the drain of the next door neighbor’s toilet. You won’t read into that but you’ll read into everything else, won’t you? In which case, Sir Madam, you are a fook. And a fool. I don’t know what a “fook” is. I’m sure it’s something. I’m sure you’ll read into that, too. Fook. That can be the Topic Of The Day: What did he mean by writing: “Fook”? Discuss. No, don’t. I’ll tell you. It means it’s a typo and I left it in. But will that be good enough for you? Probably not. It’s always more exciting to spread rumors than it is to dig up the truth. Bottom retched. (Heh, heh.) 

5 August 2008