In
my old age, settled into my curmudgeonly
and
obsessive ways, wracked with my arthritic
pains,
getting by exclusively on Social Security,
not
drawing royalties for anything, I get to
thinking
seriously, what’s the difference between
the
financially wealthy a me?
Why,
easy as can be there is an answer there
waiting
for me: I can sit back, relax, catnap,
write
and watch TV as I damn well please.
A
rich guy has to be on the go looking out for
his
investments, and paying out all that doe for
fancy
transportation and exquisite living con-
ditions.
If
he happens to be wealthy and famous at the
same
time, well, just the thought of maintaining
all
that popularity would infringe upon one’s sanity.
Then
there are the women, the friends and leeches,
all
that hoity-toity social activity.
No
thank you, I’ll stick with who and where I am.
Easy
for me to say, nothing much I can do about my
situation
even if I wanted to. Screw it, I can write
once,
two or three times a day. That seems to keep
the
depression and loneliness at bay.
And
what I decide to write doesn’t even have to be
exceptional
or salable. It doesn’t have to please the
masses
or even be worthy of publishing or repeating.
Just
plain old shit which crosses my mind will do just
fine.
Take this here piece as a fitting example of that.
I
say, screw it all, and the rest of you as well!
(That
last statement is just a writer’s gimmick meant
to
shock, and see if you were paying attention.)
-30-
Chris
Hanch 5-7-2020
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