\ quo d'est

I like to spend a few moments each week reading about catastrophes and warnings that we are one bad penny from collapse, and that most folks have maybe 1 week's supply of food, and that's when we have to stop making cannibalism and bulimia jokes, 'cause when funny and reality collide, you surpass your recommended daily allowance of irony. Irony is a painful, dreadful experience, just worse than cliche and slightly better than heartbreak on the periodic table of acknowledgments.

Also amid this range are undefined elements, unnamed storms, described in barely legible notes on bar napkins, "If you think you are meant to be with someone, even if it's only for a day, the scary thing is you might be right."

"We are not invincible, but STILL we want a few free passes without wearing the safety harness, running around the interstate, swimming drunk through the milfoil, grappling unprotected. We are not infallible, but still, STILL, we want to love."

"The ugly inside me occasionally finds egress through a couple spots on my body, the sites look like road rash, and it's ugly, it is. If you call me pretty when I think about this ugliness, I will crumble, and think this makes me less a man, and couldn't care less. Call me pretty and I am your man. I am your bitch."

That last one's off the charts.