For those who insist on such formalities, there is reason for the impending madness. I am counting down the days, marking time until the clock strikes midnight and it's Sunday, May 5, 2013: one year to the day since a pesky cerebrovascular accident altered my little roadtrip through life.
Given that the anniversary falls on a Sunday — damn you Gregorians and your calendar — any badassery is required to commence on Friday, May 3 and continue until the clock clicks over to Sunday or spontaneous combustion occurs. There is some question which will happen first. It is not my intention to go all Fear & Loathing because there is simply no need to go to Barstow to indulge in insanity. It is 1,501 miles between Here and There, almost a full 21 hours for someone abiding by the posted speed limit, and that is too much time to fritter away. Do you know how much mayhem one can commit in 21 hours? Mathematicians know the correct answer is a metric fuckton, an amount of licentiousness that cannot be wasted. Besides, huge bats live in that godforsaken desert out west, and under orders from Captain Zeep we are not allowed to engage the winged enemy in fight.
Poseurs will no doubt try to shimmy their way into the fray, but only card-carrying members of The BC will make it past the bouncer and become part of the vivid loop. Everyone else can wait outside and pick up the leftover shards — like there are going to be any leftovers. Appetites have grown enormous over the past couple months; tolerances have been dimmed to the level of soft boys and other mere mortals and that means it is almost time to feed the fucking beast, if just for the sake of closure. Time for the misfit to come out and play, one more blowout to be sure, and then it will be safe to shut it all down and move with crippled grace past Act 3 and straight to the epilogue, no looking back on wasted opportunities or other such nonsense.
If life is to unravel and the badass with a mask has to falter, no better time to do it than next weekend. Of course, I have no plans to go all wobbly. Quitting is for the weak and best left for rehab, and as a connoisseur of edge-work I have three words for that repugnant noise: no, no, no.