Words And Numbers: Our Best Defense Against Creepy Germs
Finally, I get my keyboard back.
I lent it out to a few friends. All of you, that is. Then I slept for a little while, and I noticed that I no longer felt as violent as I normally am. Lucky you, and lucky me.
Whoever is left…I’m on the east coast of the United States, trying to type with one eye while the heat in the house catches up with the blood temperature of the humans that are sitting in it. Fortunately for me, I have a ton of blankets at my disposal, because I have moved 1600 miles to get to where I sit right now.
People are born. People are dying. Some people are celebrating something special. I’m one of them. I celebrate all of your events, whether you think so or not. I don’t much feel like reading the news or reading Facebook at ALL because I know all of you are doing something interesting. It doesn’t concern me. I’m out of the business of caring about what you think anymore, because you all suck most of the time-because you have bad temperaments and I cannot tell you to “heel” or blow a dog-whistle to get you to shut up and be quiet while I talk, which is funny, because all of you keep fucking talking about your stupid fucking lives and you blow your dog-whistle on me, as if I was the one who talked too much. That is why you have your dipshit network that has replaced your eyes and your phone called the Internet, so you can fucking talk your ass off.
See, I have a bad temperament too. It is a temperament that is worse than anyone can imagine because I left my heart in a desert. That temperament happens to belong to a monkey, and that monkey is me. Anyone who has agitated a monkey without the help of bars in a zoo knows full well that they will rip your face off. I have a brain, which keeps me from ripping your face off, I only throw words instead of shit. I get to be human, out of all of the things that I could have been. The sands of the Middle East have saved my life, in a way.
Once, while I was in my tent in my medical supply shop, I noticed that there was a drainage hose coming from one of the nearby ICU wards. It was connected to a sink where nurses would wash their hands. We would run out of gloves on a daily basis and our nurses were always sterilizing old gloves in it because our supply line had been fragmented so badly after the soldiers and policemen who we fired in Iraq decided to join what you all will remember as “the insurgency”. This was a media term that the White House invented. The Bush branch of government worked very hard to lie to you about what that insurgency was. It worked. They got to tell disgusting lies because evidently, most of us have forgotten how to do a connect-the-dots puzzle. I believed in what I was doing, because like 92% of the population, I was afraid that Iraq was supporting something gravely frightening. I had forgotten to connect dots too.
Anyway, would you believe I grew a plant out of the desert sands? In that little drainage ditch that was steadily gathering water because as you know, rocks are always getting pelted by water and then they become smaller rocks. That is a desert, tiny rocks called sand. A strong little green plant that looked like grass was fucking growing in a desert that was on a regular basis throwing 120 degrees of blasting death from the sun.
That is because the sun shines in a desert. And it is reflected off of the sand. That makes shit really hot out there. But weird little me began to tend the plant, moving the drainage hose so the water would pool. I have never tended anything, but what could possibly happen if I kill a plant in Iraq? I lived in a hospital, I knew where the real death was. As long as I moved that hose, as you are all wont to do when you make a lawn, the plant would fly out of the sand like a Holland bulb. I had to leave that plant eventually, and it upset me greatly because I knew I had the only plant in the desert for miles. We eventually moved to Baghdad, where Saddam had been keeping most of the plants for himself and his Revolutionary Guard. There, I became a pharmacist’s plant. He yelled at me the entire time I lived with him. I waited for his voice to stop blowing wind across my face. I grew. He did me a favor, spitting all over me and giving me all the carbon dioxide that he had. I shall do you a favor and end this story here.
That’s a nice thing I am doing. I am going to let you be for a bit and be me. I am a quiet little devil, sometimes. Some of you may think I haven’t been me. Heh. I’ve always been here, watching all of your moves. It’s the only way I am accustomed to putting up with you, by watching you. This way, I am allowed to watch my ass. I have been sent to war in Iraq. I have nothing to fear, because I came back. I have watched many soldiers get sick in front of me as I sat at a desk, trying to put them through a “process” which did nothing to decrease their misery. I didn’t like that job. I loved it, but no one liked the way I was doing it. So someone had me dismissed under circumstances that you would not believe if I told you.
You’ve all seen soap operas. Oh my. If you only knew what has been done to me for simply caring for others, you wouldn’t believe me.
I was in one of the first waves of the second Iraq invasion. You have spattered my fucking life across Iraq, and you will pay slowly for your crimes. And you will never know what hit you, because it will be your own fist most of the time. An apology is no longer necessary from you, because now I say you are welcome. And when I say that…