gunshot residue

Yesterday, a police officer came in to work and bought a blazer. I saw his holstered gun and it actually made me nervous. It was odd. I’m a violent guy. I love the stuff. But only in movies. In real life, I get squirmy.

If I was so nervous seeing a holstered gun, I wondered how freaked out I’d be if it was pointing straight at my head. It’s kind of amazing how your perspective on life changes the instant you’re staring into a tiny hole that harbors hell. I’m sure I’d cry hysterically and probably beg for my life. I guess that means I don’t really want to die. It’s weird, though, because I’m not too jazzed about living, either.

Despite my negativity, bad mood and PLAYING THE VICTIM all the time, there’s still this microscopic seed of hope waiting to swell and burst, a needling feeling that something good might actually happen to me. Maybe things might actually work out.

Maybe I’ll get published or fall in love or, at the very least, find a job I don’t hate.

And I don’t want to exit before that mysterious magical moment happens because I don’t want life to leave a bitter taste in my mouth after I’m done with it. I’ll need something good to hold onto while I’m being raked over the hot coals.

I just need to know there’s more to life than bad luck, bad body image, and bad breath. I don’t think there is but no one can really know now, can they? So, with that inkling of a chance, I stay here and work on myself and my writing and hope I’ll work up to, or stumble upon, something significant. I just need to feel better about all the time I wasted.

There’s some positivity for ya.

Cheers.

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