So I grabbed a mug out of the cupboard this morning, threw it in my backpack, and headed to work. About 10:00 or so, I got thirsty. I mean, who the hell don’t. So I took the cap off my big jug o’water, grabbed the mug from my desk drawer, and poured a good ‘ol tall cup of the good stuff. I pulled the cup to my lips and took some big sips, since I was really parched, having consumed nothing but dry cereal all morning. A few sips in, I felt something brushing against my mouth, but thinking it was nothing more than an errant hair, I continued drinking, resolving to address this potential hair after my thirst had been temporarily satisfied, secure in the knowledge that said hair was likely my own, and therefore of little consequence. As I brought the mug away from my mouth and its contents into my field of view, this is what I saw:
I’m thrilled we could share this moment. I think I’m having bleach for dinner. Also I would like to cut my lips off.
Now I have a little prisoner.
I am left to wonder what to do with him.
So I go with my instincts.
I feel better, but only a little. They drew first blood, not me. Nothing is over. Nothing. You just don’t turn it off. It wasn’t my war. You asked me, I didn’t ask you. And I did what I had to do to win. But somebody wouldn’t let us win. And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap. Who are they to protest me? Who are they? Unless they’ve been me and been there and know what the hell they’re yelling about.