Fleshsuit and Crippling Backstory

I woke up this morning with a flesh suit and a crippling back story. I know you can identify because you have a flesh suit too but a crippling backstory? It may not be real but it looks like all the evidence is in place. If the CIA set it up they did a great job. Who was I yesterday? The same guy I am today.

It’s all here the wife, the dog, the worn shoes and toiletries. In the street people nod, the phone rings and the caller asks for me. I log on to the computer and email has my name in the header.

Slowly the facts of this elaborate back story become apparent. Limitations and laments, failures and dissapointments, dashed dreams and physical deterioration. It seems I have set up little reminders in my environment to try and offset some of the crushing truth of my situation. Photographs of happy times in temporary environments I payed through the nose for. Post its with affirmations of hope and wealth. Old lottery tickets and pants that don’t fit. I’v’e also cleverly situated drug dispensers throughout the apartment. Just to help me make it through the day. I’ve got a nesspreso machine which heats water and forces it through brightly colored pods of ground coffee coded for different levels of despair. I have two televisons standing by to transport me in to another environment with its own simpler cleaner backstory and the knowledge that I can turn it off at any time. A large white box maintains my ice cream, cakes, eggs, and butter in case I need the comfort provided by these foodstuffs.

You might say I don’t have it so bad. After all 35% of the worlds population lives on less than a dollar a day. (from the internet) I seem to have been supplied with a lot of support to cope with the crippling back story. The one that reminds me I will grow old , deterorate physically and then die and rot leaving those who love me to mourn. The story of how at any minute I could be crippled, blinded, maimed, or thrust in to abject poverty begging on the streets without a shower.

This is the point in the story where I tell you how I’ve found God and hope and donned a new pair of glasses to see the my story through a magic filter. Or how I’ve learned to live in the moment and forget the back story and it’s supporting evidence.

Except I haven’t and the evidence here suggests I won’t (theres a ton of self help and spiritual books lying around) So where’s the happy ending, the moral of the story? After all this is America. It’s probably unpatriotic to face the truth. I know I should at least blame someone. It can’t be my own fault. My parents come to mind then the government and the schools. Organized religion (if your disorganized your OK) X-rays and fluoride and transfat and the media. Oh I’m starting to feel better already. What am I doing here I could be drinking coffee and watching TV instead of wallowing in self pity. All those other bastards are worse than me. I’m not so bad. There’s a ton of evidence to support the theory that I am totally helpless and most importantly blameless in this situation. sure i’ll accept the backstory and the flesh suit but it’s not my fault. I didn’t choose it and i continue to be powerless to change it. Thank god i was getting tired of typing.

Normans solution

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