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Atomic Tangerine   By  W. Bruce Watson
 
Reminds me of the guy who dropped a quart of paint (atomic tangerine) on his foot (left) while browsing the colors at Pratt & Lambert's (quite expensive-$35/qt) promptly breaking the small toe thereon, he then hopping about wincing in pain (burning) tracking the splattered paint (erupted on impact, the bulk of it shooting up into his crotch) with his still functioning foot in little circles around the display of summer colors (AutoMetalSaurus, the special of the week) leaving a randomly distributed sequence of right foot prints there, which from a distance vaguely resembled the image on the shroud of Turin, only in atomic tangerine, causing a run on this paint by nuns from the convent down the street.

Later, during the interminable wait at the emergency room with his foot packed in ice (blue) and propped up on a table covered with magazines, he attempted to wipe the atomic tangerine streaks off of his left shoe (Newport) and out of the crotch of his trousers (Bugle Boy) using pages torn out of a much read magazine (Cosmopolitan) only to be suddenly set upon by a 92 year old woman, also waiting there, and her umbrella and her two obese, middle aged daughters and their purses, accusing him of being a pervert (or something having to do with "rubbing his whatsis with a picture of Sharon Stone while cursing and bringing himself off all over himself only pinkish instead of creamy," they said to hospital security officials).

Later, after being released by the police with an apology, he returned to the hospital emergency room to once again seek treatment for his broken toe and, now, also a multiplicity of contusions on his scalp (prematurely bald), and to retrieve his shoes (one atomic tangerine splattered (Newport) and one not (Red Wing!( but that’s' another story))) only to be informed by the two fat ladies, who were waiting for him, in a speech, hotly and loudly delivered with much sputtering and spitting, especially by the one with no teeth, and punctuated with pokes to his chest by two atomic tangerine smeared right index fingers, that "the excitement, for which you are clearly responsible, has stroked out our momma and now she thinks she’s Hugh Heffner and wont leave the hospital until she gets that picture of Sharon Stone back. So where is it, pervert? What did you do with it, pervert?" it not being clear just exactly how they got atomic tangerine paint on the index fingers of their right hands (only).

This conversation continued for a while in the street just outside of the emergency room where hospital security had deposited the three of them after breaking up the scuffle (the two fat ladies attempted to forcibly remove and search his trousers, but only succeeded in tearing out the pockets (both front and one back) and destroying the fly zipper (down position) and this only after he told the fat ladies he didn't have it and that their momma could go fuck herself.
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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