I’m obsessed with Wal-Mart. Not because I am a consumer, but because I like to view it as an outsider. It’s a very different world. Some people work, shop, and almost live there. If they sold on property housing, I imagine children would grow up there never knowing anything outside of it’s walls.

Can you imagine that? Generations of children growing up knowing only Wal-Mart and not the light of day. Suns are replaced with neon floor runners and vitamin D is absorbed into nothingness with the hum of flourescent lighting. There ring of the register, the howl of the overhead, and the sounds of busy shoppers would be nothing but a lullaby of sorts.

It’s 3 AM somewhere. I am buying cantalopes and dreaming of the Gulf Coast.

I find that I day dream a lot. I’ll be sitting in my car, or standing in a line, or at work, or out walking and my mind will leave me for someplace else with other people.

My shopping cart is empty and I’m staring down an aisle. My list says “rice” and my stomach says “soon”. My mouth is remembering your lips and the way they tasted, and my hands are remembering the way your hands felt interlocked with mine. They were soft and smooth.

I quit smoking again.

This time I think it’s for good, though I will make no promises concerning that, for fear of eating these very words later on. I want the nails in my coffin to be rail road spikes. I want to die like John Henry. I’m a steel drivin’ man lawd, lawd.

I like going for walks at night in suburbia all alone. I like the way floodlights flash at you as you walk past each house setting off garage mounted motion sensors, illuminating the world like daylight.

At every house it’s the same. Taupe paint, the two car garage, a basketball hoop for junior, a flag on the front porch, and a flood light that spreads like a beacon every other driveway. I was there last night again. It never changes.

“Our house is a very, very, very fine house. With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard.”

Will that be me someday?

Will that be you someday?

Will that be us?

Can we atleast get on the same page? I’m lost. I’m confused.

I read the newspapers and magazines when I’m sitting places and waiting. I got an oil change last week and read a few weeks worth of People magazine.

It entranced me for a short time. Ally McBeal and Indianna Jones are having an affair. Micheal Jackson is the worst he’s been in years. Liz Taylor got her cunt tightened again and married for the 387th time.

Celebrity gossip. Celebrity word searches. Lights, camera, action, glitz and glamour.

Goddamn Hollywood. Goddamn actors. Goddamn People magazine.

I’m tired of hearing about people’s lives who I will never meet. The only human interests I have are the ones I know and love and interact with. The only hearts I need warmed are my own and those closest to me. That will suffice. The rest can go to the wind and take flight. I’m out of sympathy and time.

I like being alone. I like wandering and having nothing to do. I like being free of responsibility.

I am surrounded by people. I have things to do. I have many responsibilities.

I bear and grin it and stick it the man every way I can. Clock in, clock out, go home. 40 hours a week, 8 hours a day, and I still haven’t filed for health insurance or benefits.

My prescription is getting weaker and my eyes hurt at night. I eat tums and wash them down with tap water.

I’ll sit on the couch and watch the war for awhile then change the channel in favor of the Mariner’s or the Yankees or something to occupy my mind before I go to sleep.

I’ll drink a beer and go to sleep.

I’ll call but no one will answer.

I want to die like John Henry. He was a steel drivin’ man. He died with his hammer in his hand.

I want to die like Johnny Thunders. He was not a steel drivin’ man.. He died with his guitar in his hand.

I want to die like Mother Theresa. I want to lie there surrounded by my peers and respected by the world.

I want to die like Ted Williams. Remembered for greatness- hated by most.

I don’t want to die though. Not yet. I want to live many years and see many things. And finally down I’ll go with a hammer in my hands.

John Henry was a steel drivin’ man, lawd, lawd. John Henry was a steel drivin’ man.

I talked with my dead grandmother last night. She’s doing well, if you care, and sends her regards. She’s doing well you see, playing Bunko in the great beyond and winning frequently. She hasn’t rolled three threes yet and is really raking in the tupperware and prizes.

She was talking to Buddy Epson the other day and he told her a very off color story. She said she wanted to kill him, but it would have been futile since he’s been dead for years.

Oh Buddy. I hope there’s a hell for bad television.

I hope Gilbert Gottfried spends eternity in it’s Seventh Circle, surrounded by the stars of Mama’s Family, Married With Children, Perfect Strangers, Step by Step, and the Facts of Life respectively.

Tonight I’ll return home, crawl into bed, and slumber off into a dream world.

I hope I see you there.

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