Below me, the furnace roars, unstoppable. I am thankful for it.
Surrounding me, a minimal skeleton of pipes and radiators occasionally clinks and knocks. Basic percussion that keeps me warm. I also give thanks to this 100-year-old artifact. The pipefitters, plumbers, miners, and foundry workers have all played a part in creating my life-sustaining apparatus, which will soon be deemed a criminal offence by the rainbows-and-unicorns crusaders. These visionaries, armed with their magical spreadsheets and TED Talks, believe that home heating is best accomplished through positive vibes, envisioning a future where self-righteous smugness powers the grid and regulatory poetry writes the laws of thermodynamics. I look forward to the day when a haiku will keep me from freezing.
The Thunder on top of me belittles me
To the east and above me, thunder. The same thunder that kept me awake most of the night is now sticking around to rub it in. It is bad enough to be lying on my back on the canvas—in this case, the imaginary boxing ring I always find myself in when sleep refuses to come—half wishing I were dead. It is worse to have the monster who knocked me out hovering over me, like a Canadian politician or something. Salt in my wounds, as the geezers used to croak hysterically drunk on themselves.
The Bush outside Vampires me
The bush outside my window is blooming, which annoys me to no end. Soon it will be growing with the relentless determination of a bad haircut, demanding trimming just when I’ve given up on caring for anything green or alive. Does it bear fruit? No, unless you count disappointment as a berry. Does it provide shade? Maybe for ants, or an exceptionally sun-sensitive bacterium. It isn’t even fragrant, unless one considers the lingering scent of futility a fragrance. I will give it this: it largely blocks the view of people outside trying to peek into my moaning sarcophagus, sparing them the performance art piece entitled “Why Is He Still Alive?”
My own body betrays me
Joining this symphony of despair is my own decrepit body. My thighs and calves scream, silent to the world but sharp and as overbearing as kettle drums to me. Like the pipes that heat my home, my bones clink and knock as they shift and scrape against each other, most of the joints long worn out.
I’d sell my organs for coffee, if they were worth anything
I am nearly out of coffee, and with shrinkflation, I will likely need to sell a kidney to buy more. Tragically, my kidneys are so far gone they might only fetch a handful of pocket lint and a coupon for a free consultation with a disgraced wellness guru. I will probably have to bribe those people who take old mattresses away for $89 to remove my organic blood filters, and even then, they’ll groan and say it’s an extra fee if the kidneys are leaking. If that fails, I’ll list my spleen on the local classified site in exchange for a single-use coffee pod and see if someone counter-offers with a slightly used gallbladder.
Yeah, I got your silver lining right here:
And speaking of The Weather Report, I found out yesterday that there is a Jaco Pastorius Park in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, USA.
Also, that vampire bush seems to be the most popular hangout for birds for meters around, including a cardinal couple.
So the world isn’t all bad, I guess.
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