October 9, 2018

hairy horsemen and the stench of blood

I am convinced that eighty-seven percent of homicides occur within one hour of the perpetrator having attempted to separate and open a thin plastic bag in the meat department of a grocery store.

Yesterday, I fell into the other thirteen percent, the ones who are pushed to homicidal tendencies, frequently accompanied by fantasies of arson, nostalgia for the days of Genghis Khan and sweaty horses and spears, and a strong desire to stand beside Jesus and throw heavy cypress tables off the temple steps, by entitled assholes.

I went for a walk after a couple of months of apathy, down my beloved stretch of elm-canopied road, and took in the sight of paper Burger King cups, drink cans, McDonald's bags, foam and paper and plastic this and that.

People have fucked with my street.  My street.  People who think the world is their garbage can.  People who toss things out of their car windows because those things are somebody else's problem, because they do not wish to be inconvenienced by the weighty chains of personal responsibility for throwing their own shit away, let alone considering the effect they have on the world around them.  There is no concept of interconnectedness.  It's all about them.

To quote Jenny Lawson, this makes me feel a little bit stabby.

I brought a trash bag and a glove to work.  I will set this right today, if the rain holds off.  Desecration has no place in my green haven.

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