Just Journaling

Well. I was called into the local physician’s office Monday. What I was told was with medication (more fucking pills) and strict diet I may be a few years away from a potentially-fatal heart attack. News like this automatically transforms everyday "problems" into little things that dry up like dead flowers and barely leave their stain behind to be dusted off with slow fingers of contemplation. That was my Monday, missed class bla bla bla.

Tuesday. I’m sitting here typing, living the very sedentary lifestyle that has seemingly doomed me. I hear a surge, then a small explosion, look outside, become the coolest mad man I can be, running back and forth trying to find the smoke (while thoughts of not having kept up the insurance are woven into my mind like a spider’s web) that I am now smelling from an evident, electrical fire. Walk into the master bath, it’s full of white smoke. The smoke appeared to be coming up from the floor, underneath the toilet. I was about to rip the damn thing out of the floor, before this thought had a chance to be analyzed for logic, merit, and so forth. But I quickly realized that-that just couldn’t be the case. So, I went through the wall behind it, found the smoke but still couldn’t see the fire. Then I walk around, and as I told my friend Mike, tore a path to the access wall, then, well, tore the wall down with my bare hands, found the fire, put it out, suffered smoke inhalation, feel like shit now, missed class bla bla bla.

But I (the mad man) refuse to let fire consume my home, and I (the warrior) refuse to die as well. It’s going to be a fight, but I been fighting in one way or another, whether it be for peace, my sanity, or my breath, my whole life. So I say, although I am a pacifist, to any man or heart disease, make sure your gloves are laced up tight before you step in the ring with me.