I hope it was a soft landing.
(Richard Attenborough narrates: “It was not a soft landing.”)
Another day. Yesterday survived.
A night of pain. No explanation.
Cause and effect? Effect and cause?
Fish have fins and kittens have paws. (See, it’s slightly less lousy poetry because there’s a rhyme in there.)
Not my best material.
Frustration. (Can you keep going anyway?)
Anger. (Will it paralyze you or motivate you?)
Fear. (What are you afraid of and can you face it down?)
A big, new house. Light snowfall after dark. So much to explore. Christmas lights to put up. New friends to meet. Joy!
Then, reality in the form of “Circuit.”
This is really lousy poetry.
It’s been a long day. The Abyss and I again wrested to a near stalemate. I may be ahead on points today. (I might also be delusional, or it might be a war of attrition that I’m slowly losing.)
I did not get the opportunity to rappel at our event today. I was very, very busy elsewhere. Many, many other people did, like these two very nice people, who may be vaguely familiar. And sixty or seventy more. Plus all of those who went yesterday.
Does the Abyss need sleep too, or does it spend my night time off staring at other victims?
Is there an Abyss union? You know, like mine might be a member of the Fraternal Brotherhood of Abysses Local #6969?
Regardless of the Abyss’ need for sleep, mine is obvious.
Tomorrow we will rejoin the battle.
And body odor. (Probably something to do with festering or rotting down there somewhere. It’s a guess.)
The Abyss wasn’t loved as a child and was always chosen last when teams were chosen for kickball.
The Abyss is a virgin. Because, you know, “abyss…” Who would want to… Figure it out for yourself.
The Abyss can eat a bag of dicks.
The Abyss might still be ahead on points today. But I am scrappy and I never get up until the clock says 0:00, the whistle blows, and the last out is over.
Tomorrow I think I’ll go over the edge of the roof of a 26-story building. (That woman looks familiar…)