Toilet paper. Damn it. All. My. Life. Never had to use The News. Left the leaves alone. Left hand? The third-world wipe escaped the reality of day-to-day living in This Great Country. But now? No. But…why? Manufacturing? Magnificent. Supply chain? Linked up. Supermarkets? Making it work. Fear? Ah-ha-ha. Fear freaks out the guy who grabs every roll until his cart is packed and stacked above capacity with a towering supply of paper product, weaving his way to the checkout, attempting to peer around the packages without running into his peers panic buying pallets of plastic-bottled water. Supermarket shelves are now devoid of ways to wipe. And in this stinky little home, the last roller of loo paper looms large, daring one to pick a square. The Greatest Nation On Earth goes to shit at the hands of fearful families who have barricaded their chunky children behind castle walls of toilet tissue while yours truly wonders where the next wipe is waiting. Eventually, virus victory will be ours. But nobody will want to shake my hand. Toilet paper. Damn it. My life is a hell.
Bottle of wine. Damn it. Open it once, and it is open to everything. It’s never again free from the outer air. Swik! Pop! Open. Oxidation. Begins. The history inside the bottle has been freed like the genie in Aladdin. (Not the Disney Aladdin. The real one. Where the kid is a right rat bastard and would drive one to drink.) The history escapes. The air invades. The wine’s purity of essence goes all ephemeral. It will never be again as good as one hour from now. Welcome to the decay of bouquet. Feel and flavor are dying moment by moment. Best to drink it all right now. Right! But...alone? That’s 750 milliliters of tomorrow’s price to pay. However, cork it and put it away for another day, where is the good in that? It becomes a mere ghost of today’s delight. A faint reminder of the wonder it was this day. But what is the alternative? Boxed wine? Call a spade a spade: a cardboard container holding a plastic bladder filled to overflowing with screaming headaches. Wine in a can? Just jam it in your can’t. Bottle is best. But after right now, it never is at its best. Drink to drunk, or dishonor the drink. Mournful that wine dies this day. And that I no longer can drink like a Skid Row bum with a Napa Valley budget. Half empty? So sad. Damn it. Bottle of wine. My life is a hell.
This is hard for me. My life is a hell. Be afraid. Or you will join me. TFTD: WTH?