The Month of Suck: Fail

I don’t know what my motivation was to get shitfaced on a Monday afternoon. It was just a perfect storm, I guess. Job I hate, school I’m no longer motivated to do, the best woman in my life is a dog, my Scout is really that fucking cool, it was a beautiful day to drive over the Colorado National Monument, I have a free pass to the park, Mabel was acting almost like a regular dog, Johnnie’s in Fruita is one of my favorite bars, beers at $1.50 a pint. I mean, the motivation was there, good and bad.

So, while the Scout carried the proud souls up through the schists and gneisses, I put down a road beer. Then we went up over Glade Park and it was heart-brakingly beautiful up there on the Uncompahgre yesterday.

In the summer, the Glade Park Rural Fire District has movies on Saturday night. The have a part of their shop they painted white and a little stand built for a vintage projector. There are no seats, and since you’re outside, mosquito spray is a must. You just pull up a lawnchair or back your truck up and sit on the tailgate. They play a lot of old movies. Last time I went, they showed The Yearling, an old Disney movie about a deer. It’s a family event, so the movies are mostly the old Disney shows. One time they showed Where the Red Fern Grows. In the summer evening on the Glade, there was a wet eye or two, including some on the faces of old men who might have remembered back a few decades more than I.

The Colorado National Monument is part of the federal park service, so it’s more of a Disney Land than a wilderness. I prefer my desert wild and unpaved, but the drive is spectacular, in a wholly shameless way. With the top off the Scout, it made for a good drive. Then we Fruita and got thirsty. It was nice to get away from the city, with its antithetical relationship to the Colorado I grew up in.

This is ramble, I realize. And grammatical crimes have been committed.

I really like this post. She nails a lot of what I hate about everyone my age that was not born on a dirt road in a shithole corner of a backwater state. I was ushered into life by my aunt and my grandma, both accomplished midwives in the Old church, in the house I would spend the next ten years growing in. My best excuse for my generation of spoilt halfwits, besides their parents being pussies, is that they were delivered by a detached and highly educated person they had no familial relationship with.

And last night I dreamed I strangled a squirrel the devil had commissioned to bite through my throat. It was sad, really. The squirrel allowed itself to be killed after explained to the charcoal red-eyed critter why I had to. He said he’d rather not live at the devil’s proxy; his words, not mine. So I looked away and squeezed his warm throat for a minute or two. When I looked down, he was a regular old gray squirrel. But dead.

I woke up with a regular gray squirrel on my sill. He didn’t seem up to anything, so I decocked the shotgun.