Napalm in the morning

Brush my teeth with a hammer.
I'm tired of the view.

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It wouldn't do me well to tally out the times I've been called offensive, or vulgar, or shameless, or indifferent, or cold, or impatient, ... or the most interesting person [x] has ever met.

I live in a manner that most can't imagine. I know. I've asked them. And it isn't that the things I see are more spectacular or that I'm any better at a task or any smarter than the average bear. I live in a state that affords more wonder and awe- the heart of true art and true science, Albert would write. Incredibly humble guy, or so I read. He reads like a guy of great capacity for patience, and that's why I admire him.

A co-worker complained that I become short tempered towards the end of my shift. Perhaps it's due that I'm spending my early mornings (12-8) at Target. Today a manager told me I was a good worker. A good worker. Like I'm a fucking leaf-cutter ant. I had half a mind to tell him it was my latent negro blood, just to watch his reaction. I can't stand being called a good worker. It seems like a reduction. This PERSON is a GOOD WORKER. I try to remember that my life has been rich and diverse and that other people, regardless of personal traits, intelligence or capacity have very similar rich and diverse lifetimes. Oh, you've climbed kilimanjaro? I had soup and crackers for lunch. Howaboutthat? You were the class president? I banged the valedictorian. Moot points.

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ShockTrooperOfGodLikeWhoa.

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Birthdays a plenty.
As if I only have a day!
With every breath.
I celebrate. I love you.
Now lick my boot.