Time

Some folks seem to be in it for a good time not a long time. Most of them are kids. Real gothic nihilist hippy party rocker types. All “free love,” this and “god is dead,” that, with a smidge of “pass me the bong,” thrown in for spice.

Nah, that’s a lie. They’re all kids. Some of them have just survived it long enough that they can fake “normy,” or “adult,” or whatever you want to call this generation’s capitalistic nonsense ideal of what a well-adjusted human bean is supposed to look like. And yeah, I said bean. “Being,” never did nobody no good. Just sitting there burning entropy. Beans at least jump occasionally when you poke them. And they taste better too if you grill them right.

Other folks they’re the opposite. Got those “just got to clean enough toilets and someday when my bones hurt I’ll get to pretend I’m enjoying doing nothing useful and traveling once a year,” vibes. Spend thirty years with your soul sold under the company floor and then you get a real pretty watch to get buried with. Beats eight colors of fire out of being homeless though, that I can tell you for a fact.

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Me, well thirty eight years later I can tell you I’m here for a time, that’s for sure. Given how often I’ve almost bit the old poison apple I can’t really say if it’s good. Then again with all this rude “refusing to get shot,” I keep doing who knows but I’ll see the cold side of eighty before some crotchety fool whose tinder I stole forty years ago catches up to me.

I can’t call it good or short or long, and I’ve had too much fun messing with folks to call it bad, so maybe I’ll just call it mine. My time, my tune, my crackling log. My bedroll laying back and watching the stars burn out away from the city lights. It’s mine. And I’ll be frozen before I let anyone else live it but me. My name’s Shingle, and this is my story.