FORGET THIS SIMPLE FACT

Who am I? I’m a bullet without a gun, and an arrow minus a bow. A McNobody with a McJob, just awake enough to know what’s gonna happen to me in The End when the fun house ticket expires, and the entrance to the abattoir becomes a toothy fact of the matter,.. only I’m not smart enough to jump out of line.
I’ve dug ditches, milked cows, worked in a movie theater, moved furniture, driven a forklift, built smart bombs, developed film, worked in a coffee house, written textbooks, sold fossils, hammocks, engines, magazines, books for children, and worked construction. I’ve pulled dead bodies out of the ocean, sold my soul twice over, and I’m not done yet.
What did I want to be when I was a kid? An FBI agent, or maybe a spy. A writer, a sniper, a bicycle courier. A war correspondent, a professional hero. Fuck, I would have settled for happy.
I try to tell myself I am above The Big Lie; that I was out of the room when this Satanic infant became self-aware, and therefore, it is powerless against me. In truth, I believe in the game just like everyone else; my hands are far from clean. I adhere to the strict regimen of lies while assuring myself my turn will come, like the last scene of some powerful Hollywood film; the soundtrack rising to a golden crescendo while all the paltry earthbound complications solve themselves in the omniscient glare of the special effects.
Unfortunately, I confuse fact with fiction, and my thoughts are less than linear; I have a hard time with reality, and almost no concept of the present. I exist in more than a few dimensions at one time. I’m not just writing this. It’s true.
I’m tired of listening to myself and knowing that everyone else is tired of hearing my dog shit, too. What is the point to any of this? Why not cash out now? Because I can’t. I have to ride it out. I made a deal.
But there is no end, no golden finish line. Life is a Moebius strip, and the whole point of the race is just running. There is no trophy at the end, no champagne shower, and no book deal. There’s not even a fucking point. It’s not important for anyone else to understand this, aside from the tightly-woven staircase of deoxyribonucleic acid attached to your name. Forget this simple fact, and the walls come tumbling down. True story.
At the end of the hall, the Bookie waits in an office lit by a 40-watt bulb, weighing the odds on a great chalkboard. Once in awhile he lets you win, just to keep you hooked. Every time you break the house, you’ve got to make it up, and he’ll put your soul in hock at no additional charge in order to pay the debt.