Basking in the summer sun and hosting merry, undulating rivulets of sweat betwixt my rosy ass cheeks, I often found myself thinking of the future.
The imagined timeline floated in the haze of somewhere around mid-January.
Yes. Chilled drinks did factor into that vision, as did various activities combining snow and nudity.
Despite this, my pragmatism allowed me to recognize that winter would also suck in many ways. I knew that, for example, snow would feel great on my ruddy bits for only a few minutes at most. After that, the joy would be gone.
I make sure I don’t look forward with too much adoration. That way on my daily travels, when I expect the destination to suck, it’s kind of nice to arrive and find that it sucks less. A shitty day can so often be transformed into a less shitty day by the expectation (but clear lack) of an even shittier day.
In between sweat, I paused to gaze forward in time again.
The year was 2009. It was a cold, bitter January. Much to everyone’s horror, Bush had proclaimed himself president for a third term. The Clintons were forming an insurgent militia and Barack Obama, having won the election proper, was being held “for questioning” by Homeland Security.
Looting and pillaging were daily occurrences. Police and even the army stood back, trying merely to contain the borders of the swelling uprising growing from within. Almost all major city cores exploded with a shockwaves of violence that rippled outward, ripping up any vestiges of civility, kindness, and humanity.
Savage survival was all that remained.