Stepford Life

I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. Things haven’t been getting under my skin or on my nerves quite as much or as often as they had been. I can offer no reason why and I really do not want to delve into my delicate psyche or id or ego or superego or whatever or wherever is responsible for keeping the brain and mind in check and in line.
This is scaring me. After all, I enjoy writing about things hateful. I get a kick out of wanting to kick people. I do not want that to change! I have no desire to write of cherry lollipops and sweet baby bottoms and the lickability of either or both. I do not want to write about the charming smiles of tourists and how I want to take a family of four on a tour of the city that the dad of the “troop” will document on his prized videocam and watch with great fondness with the gang once they return to their comfortable midwestern ranch-style house. I do not want to succumb to the allure of poetic reverie about the newness of spring and the buds on the trees and inside young girls’s blouses and young boys’s pants. I do not want to give up bitterness and darkness for sweetness and light.
But somethin’s gotta give. It just has to. And it will. I can taste it. It is my hope that sometime tomorrow the pink cotton candy swirling inside my head will be replaced with something as insidious as black licorice. The kind you spit out into your hand as soon as it touches your tongue.
I do not want to surrender. However, if I am not back spewing tales of hate and vengeance by this time tomorrow night, assume the worst.