Tuesday, November 18, 2014

That's not how you spell "Gandhi"

My whole body is tired and sore. It feels as if I slept on boulders last night, irregular ones with rough edges. I knew it was going to happen. As I was trying to fall asleep I was uncomfortable, restless. My neck and shoulders and back were fighting between themselves. I couldn't arrange the pillows in any way that seemed to benefit me. The muscles in my neck seemed to be playing tug-of-war with the ligaments and tendons in my shoulders and back. I have an unusually large and heavy head. It was built by the Irish, with all the buoyancy of the flagship from the White Star Line.

I am supposed to present new material at work today. Luckily, I am not doing this alone. Coffee only excites the pain points, accelerates my thoughts concerning my twitching discomfort. I did not even drink last night. It's just age and cruel time working together, and against me.

But, I am a rich man now. It happened all of a sudden. I just found out. I rarely ever monitor my accounts and investments. I prefer to just ignore them and treat them like an unchecked lottery ticket. They could be either useless or priceless. I am confident that the American economy will confirm this one day for me.

I prefer mysteries to modest fact.

I checked this morning and was shocked to discover that I am what John Lennon always hoped that I would never become: a Working Class Hero on the way to Baby, You're a Rich Man.

I should get a safety deposit box. I'd like to have a place where I can go and open a weighty steal box in private, a place in which nobody questions the odd, expensive things I choose to horde. I could pretend to be a villain in a place like that. If the lights were right.

It's where I would store all of my Gold Bonds.