It's Noon on September 1st as I write these words on my laptop, wondering why I'm here to do this at all.
According to unconventional wisdom -- supposedly the best barometer of what's really happening now -- I shouldn't be here right now. I should be dead, somewhere: shot in the back of the head, lined up against the wall, gassed in an alley, or otherwise "euthanized" like all those people on the 9/11 planes that never really hit anything at all.
And yet I feel so alive?
Either that or incarcerated in a camp, or on the way to one? Somewhere out west there's a FEMA bunk, just waiting for little old me, or so they said. Where oh where could my gun-enforced ticket to the re-education resort be? I was so ready to chuck the bills and the job and spend my days on the government dime, too.
Maybe it got lost in the mail?
And yet here I sit, sipping coffee and typing away. So I can't help but wonder what's gone wrong, now. Or if there was ever anything THAT wrong to begin with, come to think of it.