The perfect end to a perfect day…

I’ll be writing this in bursts, as I have to use at least one of my hands to hold the napkin-wrapped ball of snow against my left eye as often as possible. Unfortunately my cyber-sex skill level is still set to "novice," and I’m unable to type one handed. Alas…

Its the first day of Hell Week, and after a bitter pay-pal dispute over some documentaries that were sent to me in the wrong language (English, instead of American) I set out for a nice stroll in the evening snowfall. I needed a little fresh air after ignoring numerous text messages from smug, spoiled, home-for-the-holidays, perpetual-student cunts and fuckwits that I, for reasons I no longer remember, used to be friends with eons ago. It’s their presence that is to blame for "Hell Week," or rather, the week between christmas and new years, when the cozy resort town is once again flooded with summer levels of population. Most of the flood consists of college kids who grew up around these parts, and feel they have a sense of entitlement for the entire town…which goes really well with their endless appetite for alcohol, and all around jackass behavior.

The disputed purchase concerned a fantastic documentary called "Seconds From Disaster," which airs on the National Geographic Channel. It combines strong narration, with cgi reenactment, survivor interviews, and a chronological slow-down examination of the events that lead to various disasters that have happened over the years. Many of them involve plane crashes, some ship sinkings, some fires, some building collapses, space shuttle explosions, and so on and so on. The most important aspect of the show is the narration, as the voice of narrator is very deep, soothing, and foreboding, and cultivates an air of suspense and dread for the eventual catastrophe that we know is coming…but there is a problem. There are two versions of the show, one is american, and one is british, and the british narration is God. Fucking. Awful. Nothing says doom like nasally chip chip cheerio tea and crumpets, although he does try hard to be forceful and intimidating (which makes the lack-thereof all the more potent and pathetic). Further compounding the problem, for me at least, is the use of the metric system when describing the events, something that bothers my american racism to no end– the plane was now pluhmmeting, at thuhty three killhomatahs per hour…oh no, cried Percy! oh no, cried Thomas! Mr. Conductor was VERY cross. Fuck the Brits. Anyway, I asked the seller which version it was before ordering (ordering every single episode of all 6 seasons, by the way) and he assured me it was the american version (it wasn’t).

So I’m out, treading very carefully in the snow, which was falling on leftover glare-ice from the christmas rain…when the darnedest thing happened to me. I was crossing the street, only a meetah or less from the curb, and all of a sudden I saw, in the corner of my eye, a god-damned FREIGHT TRAIN falling from the sky, at a slight angle, about to smash into me. I jolted with terror, spun around, slipped with my arms held out, and fell firmly onto my side, smashing my eyebrow into the curb. There was no freight train, and I have no idea why I saw what I saw. The only thing I can think of is some kind of hallucination, in "flashback" form, from substance abuse in my early years…but such a thing has never happened to me before. It’s quite a mystery…and now that my ragged snow ball is starting to drip all over the place, I suppose I’ve held it to my eye long enough.

Man, these text messages…I was friends with these people? It’s strange to me. People who once were such major players in my life. Important figures. Valued companions. Now they’re just an annoying and avoided text message, once a year…replaced by other important figures and valued companions, who will one day succumb to the same fate. Oh well, I suppose I’m just feeling pessimistic…it’s been a season of bridge burning, to be sure, with very little building.