Make Your Exit

I don't know what to say....

About my life or technology in general. But it seems to me that I do better running behind the 8 ball than running in front of it. I can keep up better than I can stay ahead. I'm better after the bomb drops, and useless moments before. I pick up pieces better than I can avoid the crash. As this is my toxic week, I'm ready for a lot of things to go South all of a sudden. You know the entire spiel right now, there's no need to go into fucking detail over and over again.

Then I got this email:

William sent you a message.
Subject: I think I found your library book
"I found a library book at Duane Reade that had a Western Union receipt with your name on it. I was going to take the book to the library, but I was concerned that you needed the receipt and that you might not get it back if I did so. As a CPA I understand the importance of keeping information confidential so I decided to try to contact you directly via facebook. If in fact you did lose a library book, please reply to this message with the book\'s title and we can arrange its return to you."

Now ain't that fucking spec- tacular?? I was expecting to have to pay for that damn book, and some good Samaritan not only finds it, but contacts me through Facebook. Which is actually a completely useless site to me. I can't stand it to be honest with you, but this puts a different slant on things altogether. Fucking Facebook is outrageous. I wrote back to please destroy the receipt and drop the book off at his nearest library. I wonder if there is any further that I should do? Slip him a twenty? Like I have a twenty to be 'slipping' to people?

I feel like that guy in cowboy movies who's always thrown through the saloon window whenever the brawl begins. He rolls over amid the shattered glass, stands, picks up his ten gallon and dusts off his thighs with it. Placing it on his head, he walks off. That's ME, I'm THAT guy. I'm the first out of the fucking window. Everyone else gets thrown out the saloon doors, but I'm long gone by then. I'm a survivor, not the guy who throws the dude out of the window, nor the door. I don't even win the fight or get a chance to bash a bottle over anyone's head. I'm the one picked up and thrown.

That's alright. It's never killed me yet. I've rolled over into the literal gutter, and I've not died. I have no intention of it. I'll just get up and walk away.

Maybe I walked across the street to the next door Cathouse and got laid. Now that would be life's recompense for being so roughed up.

I'll tell you one thing. I won't have to pay for a fucking library book now.

Hobobob