Words Never Seem to Do The Trick

If all the blind-sided maniacs walking the streets of XXX countries in the world could somehow come together and have a conference on just how to make my, me, MY day worse, well, then they’d be very efficent despots, criminals and mass-murderers.

Words do not fail me.

It was, unutterably but accurately, the Worst Day Of My Life. I swear, a liver transplant holds more happiness in its hope, its sheer positive promise — just imagine — the team of skilled surgeons, one of whom is named Dr. Payne — than what transpired in the last 24 hours of my life.

Get me started? Don’t go there. It’s a dark place, far, far darker than one you have ever imagined. Just lie in your comfortable bed with the streaming light of the sun dappling your bedroom as you leisurely sip your coffee and nibble on a bagel, or contemplate your easy chair, maybe recline a bit just to remind yourself how good it feels, and then, maybe then, think about how my day went.

Twenty virgins? Is that how many were promised to the few, the Brave, the Martyrs who sacrificed themselves in the Void? Fuck, have you seen the exchange rate recently? In my case I think it has to be more on the level of 2,304, give or take a virgin or two.

Just be aware of a thing or two: I’m alive. Japan is still here, always a good thing to know when setting off on these outbreaks of optimism. (Words fail me at this point; please contact my publisher for the lurid details).

But a 747 still has four engines and a glass of white wine still tastes good. And that’s all you need to know.