Nothing Is Fucked (Or, Everything Is Fucked)

(I have forty minutes to clean up this hotel room, get a room deposit back, and hope that Wiggly comes off the mountain to drive me to Portland, Oregon.  I have forty minutes to make this count, but I don’t know if I have the will.  I have forty minutes to tell you everything while telling you nothing, because all of the everything is going into a lockbox where civilization can never access it.  All we want, baby, is everything.  And sometimes you just have to wait.)

“Nothing is fucked.”  This is what John says when everything is fucked.  I like John but I worry about being in the same car as him because he’s on the run from the law and he has an unlicensed firearm.  I try not to be on the road too much.  I try to stay stationary.

“Nothing is fucked.”  This is what John told me when the rain washed away all of his money.  This is what John said when we discovered blood on the floor.  This is what John said when he called his Pennsylvania lady and told her that all of his money was gone.  He cried, too.  He said it was the first time he’d cried in twenty years.  I have no reason not to believe him.

“Nothing is fucked.”  This is the biggest lie in the history of the world.  But if you can love a lie, that one is the love of my life.

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3 responses to “Nothing Is Fucked (Or, Everything Is Fucked)

  1. Darling. It’s time to come home.

  2. Cathy, you have to let your goslings spread their wings! Then just be ready to catch their remains when they get sucked into a jet engine. (You know: metaphorically.) Tom’s okay — even if I have no idea what this last post was about.

  3. Hey Tom. That was a pretty cool piece of writing. I really like it… a lot. But as your friend, I think I agree with your mom. You gotta be safe, Man.

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