Rain Date for the Splooge of God

With this depression on people behave in ways they otherwise would not.  Depression, ergo, persisting under pressure.  Like those miners and sandhogs digging tunnels in gaseously pressurized shields of air deep underground, or under water to counteract the pressure of the water table above.  Sometimes, when the pressure is off, or the miners shield hits a weak spot or an air bubble underground, the pressure within the tunnel suddenly becomes greater than the water pressure in the subaqueous material beyond, and a man can be blown hundreds of feet up through the ground!  It’s a spectacular sight, not unlike the fight that broke out at McDonalds yesterday over 65 cents change.  Two warring factions of high school kids on their lunch break started throwing chairs and Fries and ketchup packets into the ring where the two boys in dispute (over an amount which in ideal economic conditions would be laughably trivial) shoved and punched and pummeled until one could take the pressure no more, and ran out with his jacket over his head into the rainy February morning.

 

February.  Named for the latin februum, or purification by rains.  Rains that accumulated in this month and fell through cumulous pressures unfathomable, and therefore, worthy of worship and feasting and praise.

 

And so it rains.  I take my lunches indoors now, adopting a ribauld repartee with the subdued and loosely dressed Panamanian girl who cleans our office and tries to get me to verbally betray our game of footsies under the stained white breakroom coffee table knowing full well that my supervisor's desk is right around the corner.  Easily within earshot of her companionable anecdotes.  "Tha motherfucker, he come runnin' down my steps.  I say bitch please! He say, man lets go fuck but I tol' him straight up: No more funny bidness with when cuz my baby girl she see sittin' right der.”

 

Motherfucker.  The most common word in the world, means man, or in this case, ex-boyfriend and baby-daddy's best friend Rauol, who "jus gat he outta juvee."

 

There are those who say the end of time draws near when there are no more wars or Rumours of Wars, but I take the opposite stance, since I am not of the warring niche.  Lack of Love or Rumours of Love will be my demise.  Call me sentimental.  Call me cerebral.  Call me Frank Bidart, but don’t call me on a Tuesday night after eleven because I've got a date with  a girl and if that love cancels I am nothing.

 

As if the pressure all around is not depressing enough there is pressure from within straining to get out as well.  It knots my legs up in sweaty blankets each night, I turn and am swimming in a turbulently dreamy sea where there… There! Is the coastline, a bay rising, two pale tremulous thighs gaping warm and welcome uninhibitions!  We are home! I declare, horses running free and all these pressures find release in ecstasy, every niche is filled and all the rains glide lubricious and free across the surface of my tanned flesh.

 

On my days off from the office I stay home and do laundry.  There’s not enough money for enough detergent any more, so I only use half as much as I should.  These masks are starting to smell like stale peanuts.

 

There are so many niches to fill.  So many openings in the vast chaotic possibilities of evolution, and yet we see so few of them and mire away our days in ruminatory complaint and conjecture.  So many prospects that we can't see in the pressure of this depression, and when someone finds one we laud them and whisk them away into the niche of the elite.  The Bill Gates's and Richard Branson's.  The Gary Brolsma's and Bill Hader's.  There are those who fill the big green quiet moments with incandescence.  Imbibe their each and all lowly hour with the wondrous mead of life embraced, of vitality empirically drunken and to that I say, kudos.  You see we have this depression on.  My lunch breaks are now savorably unsatisfying, the rain outside continues to fall, my boss taps his foot in nervous anticipation for cutbacks or God Knows What Else and all I want to do is invest myself in preparation for this coming Tuesday, for tho under pressure we may fold all else we may still retain our hope.

 

Hope.  For better days to come.