In a world of snake-oil salesmen and credulous dupes, skepticism may well be a virtue. For example, I haven’t posted anything on this blog for a week, and I was having some problems with my computer earlier (a little before the last post, I think), and there’s a new, unfamiliar option under the area in which you write that’s in bright red. It reads “Cancel Post.” What’s up with that shit? It’s really distracting, difficult to ignore. I’ve lost material here before through no fault of my own. What am I, running a fucking charity here? I mean, for Christ’s sake! I’d pay for the service–believe me–I value it highly, only I’m married to Ebenezer Scrooge in drag, and she keeps every Korean won I earn.
Speaking of said villain who claims to disdain Satanists even though she more than likely is one herself, last night she told me that one of our middle school students, an enthusiastic girl who’s made steady progress in her English-speaking and vocabulary-learning skills over the past year, says she sees demons, and my wife believes her! I’m married to a fucking lunatic!
If I weren’t a total sap, I would have been out of the marriage long ago. No matter how loudly I disdain her for embracing a world of frauds, much as she pooh-poohs the real world and is afraid that the Illuminati or Freemasons are taking it over before her paranoid eyes, she still insists I believe that her long-haired, bearded, pacifist, socialist hero who’s been re-invented as a hybrid of Chuck Norris and Pat Robertson, didn’t die nearly two thousand years ago.
I can’t write much this morning, as I’ve got to go see a doctor about an unrelenting pain in my chest. My blood pressure–not the Lord–has risen in the course of this miserable and abysmal marriage, but as Sting would say in the Police song “Invisible Sun,” “I don’t even want to die just yet.” Adds Billy Joel: “Don’t ask me why.”
Of course, my viciously solicitous wife is probably praying for me to have a heart attack, and I’m so deeply stuck in this quagmire, like a four-eyed saber-toothed tiger in a tar pit, that I half hope she succeeds.
On that note, cheerio, folks! I hope you’re doing comparatively well and I’d love to hear from you. Let me know if you have any suggestions for an epitaph. It can be lonely out here in cyberspace, especially when you’re not sure how to be sane anymore.