bring the noyz

I've had better days.
Dani's dead.

There. I've just come right out and said it.

But I think I'm okay with it. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. I just don't fucking know right now.

"Dani?" you may be asking yourself right now, "Dani? No, not Dani."

Yes sir, you are correct, my dear reader. Not that Dani. And shame on you for your less than wholesome thoughts. And it's not the thoughts about that Dani being dead that will doom me. The greater risk to my soul or whatever if you believe in all that stuff, in regard to that Dani are my thoughts about the things she does while very much alive.

I'm talkin' about an entirely different Dani.

You may remember her as the reluctant, grumpy, then sleeping bridesmaid in the wheelchair at Our Wedding. She was one of my students.

She was only 12.

And it's not like she just died, like today or anything. She died last December.

I just learned about it today.

Through an email.

And like you, my dear reader, I thought that breaking-up via email to be the epitome of exceptionally poor taste. (assuming I heard that part of the story correctly, so sorry Spew, that totally bites)

But I heard a rumour that necessitated I ask a question via email because that remains my only open communication channel. It was answered almost as quickly as it was surprisingly.

Yes. The rumour is true. Dani is dead.

Fuck.

Dani was, is, oh. . . I don't fucking want to get into this right now. So I'm just not gonna.

But Dani. . .

Dani was, is, the reason for everything.

Because of my involvement with Dani, I met The Wife.

Because of Dani, The Wife and I were inspired and at least in part earned the confidence to open our hearts and home to The Boy.

Because of Dani, my life took an unforseen, if not entirely unexpected turn. It was a turn very much for the better. . .

My further thoughts on the subject are currently a boiling frothing mentally confused cauldron of anger and grief. So much so that tonight I will write of it no more.

But fear not my dear reader, I doubtless soon will. Oh yes, I soon will.

To help clear my head, after tucking both The Wife and The Boy snugly into bed I cruised down to the 'hood convenience store to buy beer and some smokes.

Yes. That's right. Beer and cigarettes. On a school night.

Lest you be tempted to cast judgement, please allow me to remind you: some of us pray, some of us meditate and think things very deeply, and some of us just flat out plain wanna get fucked up. Go ask Alice what the dormouse said, feed your head, feed your head.

So I goes down the local store, right? I gets my beer and goes to check-out. I asks the man for some smokes to go with my beer.

The total of my purchase?

$6.66.

"$6.66? Shit. The Number of The Beast."

The Middle Eastern and therefore presumably Muslim man who rang up my purchase seemed annoyingly amused at my exclamation of suprise and shock with the above statement. He gratiously knocked a penny off, making my total $6.65.

But I saw the cash register. I know the true value of my purchase, the Price of The Beast.

Still reeling from that spiritual kick in the testicles, I step out of the store and collapse into the driver's seat, key in hand.

I start the car. The radio is on the local AM talk station. I hear George Noory say something about how his next guest is going to talk about the Antichrist.

My total? The Antichrist?

Holy fuck.

Coincidence? Or synchronicity run amok?

Well, if I'm going in a bucket, at least I'm enjoying the ride.

Mostly.

Dani. . .
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