Rapscallion: The Autobiography of a King

In the year two thousand and nine.  I got paid 50 cents to clean an entire house.  I stepped out back and saw two quarters, one side shiny atop elderly brick.  Dirty and ragged, lungs filled with chemicals, I looked down, “Oh, is this my tip?”

Meanwhile, everyone else came and went.  The ones mainly responsible for the disaster we’re irresponsible everywhere else and so they came and went as they pleased (to displease me).   If there happened to be a random corpse lounging in the middle of the kitchen floor, chances are they would not only somehow completely disregard it for another (me) to regard, they would probably step right over just to reach the refrigerator so as to not be late for snack time.  Yes, these kinds of people.  Ignorant, lazy, irresponsible people.  And, as a matter of fact, there is a corpse here.  It’s not lying in the kitchen, but rather and ironically enough, it’s lying in the middle of the living room.  It may have been my fault, it may not have.  Irrelevant.  They are fools, all of them!

And so, all the while, thoughts of universal bitterness fly in and out of mind, almost every individual person in my life lined up for blind-sided review then shot down.

Afterwards, I had a rationalization celebration.  It left the house a disaster.

Honestly, I don’t consider myself a martyr.  But, whenever I look around I start to feel like a king.  The perks of being the rare kind with a head screwed on somewhat straight in a perpetual situation of walking disasters is this very thought.  While some have a multitude of addictions: drugs, alcohol, redemption, sex, cigarettes, knowledge and sadness.  I combat with my addictions: coffee, progress, productivity, the Internet (maybe), and pleasing people.  When I haven’t won I still haven’t lost, and so it goes on that way.

As you know, and I know too, time moves forward.  It is constant.  I’m pretty sure there is no escape.  So how is it that so many people seem to have avoided it completely?

Most of my friends are little children in grown-up bodies, doing grown-up things with the misery of the elderly and the conceit of king’s.  Most blinder than a blind-man, more medicated than a chronic patient, with more issues than most magazine’s, and more abundant than harvest season.  This is the scene in which I live; I’m practically a martyr busy to the point of insanity in a world of sloths.

One time (last night actually) I had a dream.  I was alone and peacefully residing in the middle of a vast desert.  Vivid shades of orange like a blanket overtop of everything in sight the sky was blood red.  Piece by piece, I was building a sand castle for me and my things to live in.  Each grain of sand held another close, and together they were strong.  Just then a caravan of what I deemed an assortment of one of every kind of man and woman came barreling from afar like a dust cloud.  They were evil, they were kind, they were sad, they were ecstatic, they were manipulative, and they were honest.  And in a single moment all the bad seeds exploded each into a swarm of a thousand bees.  I was invincible to their attack.  However the good balance was quickly demolished and I saw the ugliness within.  All the beauty was lost in the madness.  My kingdom crumbled with the wind, and it would have withstood if not for them and their more-than-gentle touch.  And just like that, my dream’s dream ended.

So, I woke up today and followed my routines.  Everyone else had already begun their day so the house was empty and it was a prime opportunity to fulfill my duties while they all worked their money paying jobs and created work for me.  I made fifty cents today, and it was the result of my own human hands, and not that of others.  I am proud of it.  I run this kingdom.  And soon enough the melodramatic, apathetic, blind creature friends of mine will come home.  I’ll lie to their faces by smiling and saying everything’s all right.  I’ll have a scotch or nine, fall asleep in the middle of the living room floor, wake up after they’ve already left for work, spend the day hard at work designing reasons to despise them and then rinse, wash and repeat (the thing I do best).


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