Caterwauling

You can just go ahead and eat me while you’re at it.

Idiot neighbors vomited in one of my paid, assigned parking space. It was fresh when I got home, and right where the driver would step out. 

I angled the car so I didn’t drive or walk through it. You know, there are always cigarette butts around my car, and skid marks like someone aimed for the rear bumper. Now vomit. 

Mom says they were in the garage all day, letting their demon spawn run and scream while they fought. Explains the throwing up. 

The garages connect two buildings. I hope others complained.

This vomit shit reminds me of having gum thrown in my hair by bullies. I knew I didn’t deserve it. I knew I was a better person. And I knew I’d rise in this world while karma shit in their supper dishes. 

I’ve seen that come to pass. So too will this. I just hope the classy, snooty people who own the spot to my left don’t think I made that mess. 

Just pray with me that I am strong enough to resist lobbing a bag of flaming cat turds on 2409’s doorstep. 

I joined a company a long time ago. It was basically the founders and their longtime helpers. And then I came in as part of the next generation.  

My pedigree was pretty good. But I always had that feeling that because I wasn’t part of the original crew, I was somehow “lesser than.”

They had an ownership stake. I didn’t. But I worked like I did.  I can’t say I saw the same effort from them. 

 I see a guy I met back in those days and he said he remembered how early/late I was always there. Even on weekends. 

My friend wondered why the business failed, when so many of us worked so hard to support it. 

What he didn’t realize is the founders were so burned out, they weren’t involved. Well, unless it was to gum up the works and throw around authority in an attempt to make the fresher blood as crazy (I’ll call it burned out to be nice) as they were. 

I got my chance eventually to be on the ground floor of something. Punched a clock for an awful long time. And by punching a clock, I mean throwing my alarm across the room at 5 a.m. every day because I had to make the donuts. Again. And again. 

While I would never end up the way the original crew did, I see myself and my original mouseketeers heading there.

I mean, not in a “positive drug test means you passed!” kind of way. 
But  rather, wanting to chill a little. Get some distance, some perspective. Put a new wick in the neverending ball of wax. 

Alas, an unimaginable luxury at this stage.