Pardon me, do you have any sorts? I seem to be out of them.

I had a birthday this past Sunday. I turned… an age. Everybody was cool about it, didn’t bring numbers into it all.
Except my dad.

My dad kept reminding me how old I am all throughout the phone call we had. I wasn’t sure if he was amazed I have lived as long as I have, or if he was amazed he lived to see me be this old. Regardless, he sang “Happy Birthday” to me while playing his ukelele. I don’t care how old you are: that’s pretty awesome.

AmbroseI got a video game for my birthday from the young’uns. It seems like an odd thing for a man my age to receive, but fuck. John Carpenter spends his time playing Dead Space 3 and watching basketball. I could do worse. Besides, they got me the WWE 2013 game. And it’s fun as hell. I could spend days playing that damned thing. I guess I have done that for a couple days anyway.

I love pro wrestling. I don’t have any guilt. I love to play the game, I love to watch the shows, I’ll go see it live, I don’t care. I know more about the history of that particular thing than I do most things.

Wrestling. Horror movies. World religions.

Even to me, I seem odd. In a lot of ways, I’m still coming to terms with myself. Maybe I’m the embodiment of the New South; still clinging to the old ways, like watching NWA legacy families rise through the ranks of WWE, a distinctively Northern company, yet embracing the new ways, like computer technology and not lynching people because they’re a little bit different.

It’s that weird feeling of being half a step behind that plagues me. A little off kilter. Dancing to the wrong beat.

The part of my brain in charge of writing feels like hot Silly Putty, a little melty and weird. It still is what it is, and knows what it is designed to do, but it’s not quite up to doing it yet. I need to absorb things for a while, not constantly put out, like a cheerleader with horrible self-esteem and an amazing reputation.

I haven’t had to do anything. And I haven’t done anything. It’s a weird feeling. Puts me out of sorts.
Yet I understand that a pitcher that does not get refilled will have nothing to pour out.

So I’m refilling. Might be a couple days, might be a few weeks. Who knows? I don’t. I can’t predict this shit.

Gotta go find my sorts.

 

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