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Still careless, always was, still getting hurt, doing stupid things. If I say that I’ve matured since high school, I’d have to go to confession. And technically, since I haven’t finished my penance from the last time (1 million Our Fathers and 1 million Hail Marys) I really shouldn’t push my luck and return to the confessional. Besides, Father XX (I’ll protect his good name) basically kicked me out of the church after hearing my confession. He mentioned something about a lightning strike. I am lucky though, wondering sometimes if someone is looking out for me, you know … a Guardian Angel type. I must have been a good boy, before my high-school days, to deserve that. So, I’m gearing down and trying to stop doing stupid things. It’s boring, but I’m getting used to it. At least that’s what I tell myself, each day around noon, when I start to sober up. Just kidding, I’m actually a lightweight. My cardiologist asked me if I drank and I said I like beer, but after one I’m feeling, well … pretty darn good. He laughed at me and called me a “cheap date.” So, I tried doing bong hits, but it was too scary. I started thinking reflectively and was terrified with what I saw: the inner workings of my mind. Just kidding, that stuff is still illegal so I don’t do it. At least that’s what I told my interrogator, as I was hooked up to the polygraph, trying to pass the re-up for my security clearance. My interrogator told me that the machine says I’m not telling the truth and asked me if I’d like to comment. I turned towards the polygraph machine and commented, “Open the pod-bay doors, Hal.” I’m looking forward to our 40th reunion. I have a few friends left, since I walked out of AEHS in 1973. I looked it up and a few means at least two, so I’m telling the truth. Yeah man, I have quite a few. Sounds like a lot, to me. I’ll be wearing a name tag, not so you’ll recognize me but for you to remind me of my name. I’ve killed way too many brain cells over the years to remember little things like that. Speaking of little things, my chickens (I live on a farm) are my best friends. Chickens are actually very stupid, so (IQ wise) we get along just fine. Actually, my best friend is still my wife. We met in 1980, and after (I begged, pleaded and cried to get her to say yes) we married, she realized the mistake she made, but felt sorry for me and decided to stick around. Lucky me. I’m good at crying though, so it all worked out. I was getting a tattoo the other day and cried when the artist stuck me with the needle. I tried to leave, but she wouldn’t let me until I paid. She was tougher than I was so I stayed. She was mad at me and I paid the price. She tattooed the words “cry baby” on my left cheek. At least no one will see it because I don’t get undressed in public, like I used to. Oops, I didn’t mean it that way. Actually, I’m going to give up all this “being good” stuff. It’s not me, never was. Don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you walk away and mumble, “Tommy’s still the same idiot as I remember him.” I’ll take it as a compliment, sort of. After all, my chickens are still my friends. My wife tries to be, but it’s getting difficult for her. This I know. Perhaps I’ll come alone to the reunion. That way, when I return home (sober, perhaps) I can reply to Pam, when she’ll ask me if I had a good time, “Oh, it was delightful honey, you should have come along. Everybody was so friendly, just like the old days. I even made quite-a-few new friends.” She’ll shake her head and walk away. Darn it.
