Dance like noone's watching...

I don't care if it was Satchel Paige or a girl named Paige who said that. The point is that the struggle to shed my timid boy's rags and don the mantle of the hero-savage-noble of my dreams, who runs naked through people's backyards with the name of a woman on his lips, being chased by molten lava flow, this battle is ongoing.

So here Sunday night is nearly gone, and in the morning I have to shoehorn myself into a blandified persona for the benefit of my bank account, just as I have done nearly every week of my so-called adult life. I told myself that if becoming a stooge was part of adulthood, I wanted no part of it, but I have so long lived a joke and charade, that having a pie thrown in my face or getting poked in my eyes would be an improvement.

Not that I "undervalue" my hours in the saltmines, sport fans. It's all about the people, and I honestly like the people I work with. We occasionally crack a joke, but it's often something noone outside of our world would comprehend much less think funny.

And I do want to scream sometimes. Not like go postal, but just alert people to the fact that there's this thing going on all around them called their life, and they're spending it believing in things that make the Toothfairy and the Easter Bunny look quite profound. Hours, days, years, centuries, millenia go by, and the human race is more concerned about who uses hand sanitizer than who is actually using their brain. Our brothers and sisters who killed Mastodons used their brains as much as the average person does nowadays. OK, this is starting to sound bitter, so let's move it along. Nothing to see here. Thank you.

I don't know where I'm going with this. If you see me walking by, with a teardrop in my eye, look away, baby, look away. All I can tell you, human subjects, is that this caveman is gonna do more than carve stick figures into deer antlers. Somehow or other I am gonna don that mantle.