every once in awhile I get to wondering what is this really all about. Then I smack myself awake and hold onto the wheel because I'm driving on the highway and I'm pretty sure the driver next to me doesn't want to exchange insurance papers today. He's probably on the way to his mistress house and would have a hard time explaining to his wife why he was on the north side of town in an accident. Anyways, as I change lanes to an empty spot in front of the stop light only to be first to speed closer to a job I dread, I see the hundred or so birds perched on street lights and telephone polls. Its like a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock. They all seem to be devising a plan, a grand plan to lay down a wall of bird poop as the first set of cars drive under them. The only problem is that birds are dumb as f_ck! They can't count so they can never set a time to release the sh!t storm. If this life was really about something, something worth wild, then all of our stories should come true. The aliens should rip through time and space while the earth quakes and opens a deep hole to hell as tsunami waves come crashing down upon it; releasing a fog that seeps into our lungs and turns many to zombies then blocks out the sun and causes an ice age of mass proportions. All of this in just one day. And then there would only be a few of us, survivors; if you want to call us that. We aren't just trying to survive. We're saving the world.

But that's only if this life means anything. Right now, it's just about getting out of this beaten down car I have to hold on to and walk into this dark and bleak building to do a job. A job that was only created for me to obtain more bills and work overtime to get paid a few more cents so that I can pay bills that never seem to end. Its a cycle of bullsh!t

Thank God I'm a writer.