YOU RUN INTO A WALL

Sometimes you just run into a wall. Particularly with age. You know what I mean?

Nothing seems to make sense, but as long as you have your health and your wealth, you continue crawling forward. (What remains of your health and wealth!) There is an ephemeral hope as long as these two pillars keep the roof from collapsing on your head.
But what is that hope? You pray that the good will triumph over the bad, in your life, in everyone's life. Of course, there is no escaping the end. And the end is never pleasant, neither for yourself nor for others.
I thank the fates that I am not Trump nor one of his ignorant followers. His overweening ego and his pursuit of gold reveal a pathetic individual.
His orange face is disgusting although his faithful fanatics believe he is the Sun God and worship this grifter whose character is nothing short of cringe.
And all the riches? He can't take them with him. He's almost eighty years old. He's cooked except Melania doesn't consider him hot. She finds her dildo more romantic and satisfying than this stank fish. Skank broads smell better.
He reeks of misery. His diapers reek of shit. The diarrhea from his brain leaks out of his ears, nostrils and mouth and drips from his fleshy chin. Sicko Stephen Miller, his lips parted, receives every drop with the relish of a mad man.
Who in his right mind would want to be this imposter of a human being as Trump chases his tail since his good buddy Jeffrey Epstein is no longer around to provide him with teenage tail to chase? He probably wishes he were young and a Rivera High coach.
But there is good news! Father Jesus P. Cadissimo, the defrocked priest who outed previous bishops and their pedophile lovers, and was excommunicated as a result of his noble efforts, has been ministering to the poor of Cameron Park for many years.
"I am no longer a Catholic," he told me. "I have become an eclectic evangelist, drawing the positives from every religion and all philosophies into a new faith. I am in the process of beginning a new movement called THE CHURCH OF THE CRAZY CHRIST.
"It will be based on obvious truths such as there is no life after death, the ferocious god of the bible is a fraud but an interesting figure nonetheless victimized by his eternal fury and solitude is the ultimate solace in a noisy world where silence is the sole escape among a multitude of other teachings."
I went to the Immaculate Conception Cathedral last week after lunch at The Palm Lounge. As to truths, I know that I wasn't conceived immaculately. I will not be the Second Coming although I can't remember the last time I had a second coming.
I lit a candle beneath the statue of St. Jude Thaddeus, the patron saint of lost causes. I walked around the sanctuary and observed the fourteen depictions of the Stations of the Cross. There was so much blood in each illustration that I thought I was one of Cortez's Spaniards observing an Aztecan sacrifice from after.
The beginning of another week. Almost a decade into my retirement, a Monday could be a Saturday for all I know. I will pursue my usual routine of writing, reading, exercising and strumming my guitar.
I keep my expectations low, but when I find myself succumbing to a frenzied mentality, I take a tranquilizer and relax.
Así es mi vida.

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