Lately I’ve become acutely aware of this feeling of gloom that’s been following me around nipping at my heals like some starved mongrel.  That’s not to say this dark void that passes through me has remained entirely opaque, for I have been aware of some form of psychic mass weighing on me for the past year or so.  It’s not tied to any overt trauma like the diagnosis of terminal cancer or the death of a dearest Aunt May; no this is the sort of dread born deep within the id and thrust upward toward the airy heights of the conscious mind, and if the title of this post is any indication then the cause of my occasional dark thoughts is that one simple yet so important question plaguing humans since our organic computers first became self-aware: Why must I die?

I suppose the best place to start this bit of self-reflection is with…some self-reflection.  It was sometime during last winter when I would find myself overcome with these feelings of dread over my position in life and where I was headed.  I was driving around the Southern Tier delivering medical supplies to various offices, clinics, etc. which required me to put in long hours in adverse conditions.  Day in and day out I drove hundreds of miles in treacherous blizzards ensuring the safe delivery of IVs, pillow cases, rubbing alcohol, band-aids, etc. to disgruntled nurses when this feeling of “is this all I will accomplish with my life” started popping its pessimistic face out of the subconscious bush.  This feeling of failure is important to me, for I read it as an urgent message sent to myself through the bio-highways of the brain saying “Hey dummy, get off your ass and be something more than a truck driver!”  A strong message indeed, but how does this get to the question of dying?

That’s an easy question to answer: I’m afraid of dying without leaving my mark.  It’s not the process of dying that scares me; it’s not truly having lived and shedding the mortal coil full of regrets which frightens me so.  Fast-forward a year later and things have improved somewhat.  I’m not slaving fifty hours a week for meager wages anymore (Thanks chronic shoulder affliction) which does leave me much more time to pursue my passions of writing and studying every aspect of humanity I can get my eyes and ears on.  Of course what I strive to achieve and the roads which need to be traversed are much different than before; there is a security and comfort found in having an employer with their benefits, 401K, guaranteed raises, and Christmas parties. However, with that security comes the mundane and imaging myself thirty years from now with only faded memories and some shitty parting gift as souvenirs for my toil is the most fearful conception of a life spent.  Better to eat lead now and save the slow pathetic decline.  So I travel down new roads and seek new opportunities.  I want to create my own way through this fascinatingly crazy thing we call life and when my story comes to its final page I want the last paragraph to be full of smiles.

In another life and another time, I made the most tragic of mistakes which has brought down two millennia of suffering and bondage in one man’s name.  For I was merely trying to silence a rabble-rouser who would have torn my people asunder, leaving them as easy prey under the mighty Roman sword.  Instead, I made a martyr of him, and in doing so destroyed not only our enemies, not only ourselves, but more importantly, our very belief in humanity, and for that I hang my head in shame.

This is more important to most Americans than policy decisions

When it comes to obsolete British monarchy with German ancestry, I am time and time again amazed by the obsessed behavior displayed by housewives and soccer moms on both sides of the pond.  The obsession with Prince William and Kate Middleton is so over the top and so entrenched in certain circles that it is actually hard to believe.  For instance, according to CTV news there are, amongst other things, odds being placed on what their child’s name will be, press camping out in front of the hospital Mrs. Middleton is planning on staying in, they are receiving gifts (including condoms) from foreign governments, and speculation even abounds that the birth of this child will help the economy.  I suppose I am either preaching to the choir or being a berating asshole depending on your viewpoint, but seriously I want to know, why is it that these people having a child, or getting married, or how much they party, or what he did in the military, or ANYTHING they have ever done, are doing, or will do matter so damn much to people?  I suppose I could ask that question about every celebrity really, but I will just stick to these two for now.  Who cares if a soon to be token king and his high school sweetheart have a child?  The fact I even know they met in high school is more information than I ever want to have about either of them.

Just a small 50,000+ casualty mistake

Seriously, there are important issues and decisions happening EVERY DAY that every American should be concerned with.  How many proponents (or opponents) of DOMA know that the government used some back-handed shit to get that law overturned?  Yay gays can get marriage benefits, but the downside is that the executive has the power to overturn laws without the congress (though this has been a trend that goes back to Jefferson so I suppose it’s nothing new for most Americans to not know).  It seems our collective naivete with regards to all things legislative, executive, and judicial is growing at an exponential rate, and for a long while now there have been those who are not only aware of this, but use it to manipulate situations to their own ends.  Look up the Gulf of Tonkin incident if you don’t believe me.

(Reuters) – FBI agents will resume searching an overgrown field in suburban Detroit on Tuesday for former Teamsters boss Jimmy Hoffa, who disappeared nearly 38 years ago and is thought to have been murdered by members of organized crime.

The memories…they’re there…they’re just so hard to focus on.  All I know now is the hunger, the gnawing at the blackened husk of my soul for delicious flesh.  Those who still feel all that choice blood coursing through their veins simply can’t understand the need, the drive that consumes us.  Back when I was living, before I became rotten and putrefied, I was many things; a teacher, a husband, a father, a home owner, an upstanding member of society.  Then the plague came.  I was home trying to board up my family within the best wall of defense I could manage…it wasn’t enough.  A hand-less arm, ripped down to jagged points of bone, broke through my shoddy woodwork and caught me in the side.  All those horror zombie movies say you have to be bitten to catch this undead hell, this hunger consumed numbness, but in truth all one of has to do is break skin to spread our gospel.  I fell quickly to the floor; hot buzzing filing my body like a million little bee stings on my very being.  My vision started to blur and turn reddish as I saw my wife kneeling over me.  Oh sweet Sharron, you beautiful, darling fool, how could you not have grabbed  little Ginny and ran for all you’re worth?  Once the famine of flesh took full hold I could do nothing to stop it.  I didn’t even want to…all I cared about was quieting the screaming for sustenance ringing in my ears…I still had ears then.  I left nothing of my family but well cleaned bones on the floor.  My family and my home left bare, skeletons of what we once were.  I think I feel something about that, something like the emotions I used to feel when I was living.  There are no emotions anymore, only hunger.  Even these memories are fading as I push onward trying to curb my insatiable appetite.  My skin slowly decays as chunks of rotten dead flesh fall from my frame here and there.  The only thing that keeps me going is whatever is inside me now.  I don’t know what caused this, but it seems to be bringing us all together.  Memories are disjointed, but once all the living flesh was gone I started walking as if toward a great beacon on the horizon; my fellow brothers and sisters also have heard the calling and make their way as well.  I feel nothing for their rotten, wrecked bodies as they hobble, crawl, and drag themselves toward whatever is calling us.  I feel nothing for myself…I don’t care if I “live,” I don’t care if I “die.”  Whatever is left of my cognitive center reasons that I should be praying for some sweet release from this hell, but I couldn’t raise that much of a stink even if I wanted to.  I only WANT one thing and woe to any of the living flesh whom I come across.

Body Parts Fall Onto Astoria Street After Person Struck By Train

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