See that guy? There's your happy-face Ron. I mean, look at that mug (and look past the obvious imperfections) and tell me you don't see a silly-ass happy fella. It's almost sickening to see rondavis in that state; it's akin to watching fish walk in the mud, an affront to all that is holy (and tasty).
It's not a new pic, sad to say — that's not where I am these days. "Ue o muite arukō" — I'm walking while looking up, keeping shit from spilling out of my eyes. Must be the pollen count.
I find it difficult to muster even a half-smile of late, for plenty of reasons, most of them private. But it's time for the mean mugging to end. Granted, this little stroke business did not help matters, but meh, what's a guy to do, except suck it up? Denis Leary had it right: Life sucks. Get a fucking helmet. Or shuffle off the coil. Either way works. Get busy living or get busy dying. Just quit your whining.
It's advice I'm taking to heart tonight, because I'm sick and tired of feeling like life dealt me a bad hand. I had a stroke. So what? It came at an especially ridiculous time in my life. So what? At least my brains aren't scrambled eggs. At least I didn't wake up dead.
So while I won't bullshit and put on a happy face, the above photo from last year proves one thing — lodged somewhere under all these layers of surliness is a state of happiness, waiting to get out. I think I feel it hiding under my spleen. Or maybe it's lurking in the numb spot on my left leg.
Either way, I've got to find it and bring it to the fore. Because here's a little secret between us girls: I liked happy-face Ron. He kinda rocked. He was still a bad-ass — a happy bad-ass, to be sure, ready to mix it up when necessary — but he was the guy I spent a lifetime wanting to be. He was eager to be alive. He looked forward to the future. He — horror of horrors — actually thought life was worth living.
I know. Freaky, right?
He's in here somewhere, dammit. I've got to find him. The trick is getting the muse to coax him out of hiding.