last day

by underswansea


If this doomsday thing doesn’t come through I’m fucked. I am overdrawn. Down to my last beer. My truck’s on E. My prescriptions have run out. The Canadian government is doing away with the penny – soon I’ll have no jingle in my pocket. Nor fuck-all to rub together. The hot water is running slow. Probably the pipes – Oh Danny Boy the pipes the pipes are stalling! All the girls think I’m old. I can’t even pass for their father anymore. I’m like Will Geer on the Walton’s, but without the wisdom or cheerful disposition. I can’t bend over to tie up my skates without losing my breath. The Mayans must know something. You think they could have elaborated. Then again when you are chiseling your thoughts into rock you choose your words carefully. Not like now, like me, hammering me insipid meanderings into a 23 inch Apple computer. Sure the days are short – but that ain’t what’s getting me down. If the world ends tomorrow I will have never. . . shit now I think about it I’ve done to much already – somebody should stop me. I never thought it would be the Mayans to the rescue. I have to quit talking about ‘me’. I guess it’s too late for that now. My feet are sore. I can’t run like I used to. The nights aren’t friendly. My teeth are a wreck but I was hoping they would hold up till the end of the world. Shit, I’m sure I don’t have enough firewood to last till January. I have one of those fancy one shot coffee makers on raincheck at Home Hardware. It is promised for Saturday. Sure, it will be disappointing not to get it. Maybe the Mayans had it wrong. You never know. If this doomsday thing doesn’t happen I am fucked. But at least I’ll be sipping some quality coffee come Christmas morning. Either way, it’s all good.