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Working for a living


My youngest son, Skippy, turned 10 yesterday. I am now ten years older than I was when he was born. I feel every minute. In case you haven't noticed, I've been miserable. I've really been trying hard not to be, there's no real good reason for me to be, but I am. Chemicals? Maybe. Health? Probably. I am fat as shit and sore as hell. (Because I am fat as shit. It's a vicious cycle.) I have been trying all the regular crap that people say to try when you're in a rut. I got a hobby, an old British sports car. I can't make it run. I started exercising. I am too busy to make it stick. Diet. Are you fucking kidding? New job. Trading old problems for new problems. Besides, thanks to the complete bunch of assholes running the country, our money ain't worth shit. As of this writing, the Canadian dollar is worth a dollar and ten cents American. What the hell are we thinking. We are now Canada's Canada, only with guns and less polite. So maybe we're Canada's Mexico. Whatever, I'm not even trying any more.
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