You know what, fuck the word dysfunctional. It splatters the pages of Amazon reviews like so many deer turds, stripped of its meaning by vast and shallow overuse, primarily by people whose most loving descriptions are of themselves, deployed via the hidden (yeah, right) mechanics of projection.
Jesus. And the mind delivers itself of another little thought-packet of rage slash humor slash truth slash hell, something bigger than I ever knew. In fact, a whole lot of the sentences that languish in Blogger Drafts forever, going back, what, three, four years now—so shoot me, I cannot subtract in my head, there must be bigger human flaws but none that immediately come to mind …
Well, revenge is sweet. Living well is the best revenge—that and skewering fools like so many chunks of flank steak per kebab. Never pointless. Never empty calories. This is the good stuff, the stuff by which we live in this stinking sea of crassness, atop which float so many islands of beauty and grace … Floating islands, made of vegetation, of land and sea all richly matted together yet rooted nowhere, their own little worlds. And so is the soul is, if it is to live.
And the animal life, upon those islands, and the fish that swim beneath them, and all manner of good things … Isn’t that the most painful truth of all?
Well, which is it? Are you going to be among those who trash this life, in the face of its fragility—one stingray barb, two inches, three minutes away from death—or are you going to be a stand-up kind of guy?
Well? Are you?
Rest in Peace, Steve Irwin.
