You have stayed too long
|From lodgerlow, who has had numerous "issues" in trying to sign onto this blog:|
I spend too much time inspecting my hands. In idle moments I look at my gnarled fingers. I turn my hand over and run the tip of my index finger down my Life Line, across my Heart Line. My Life Line is far too long for someone with such a faint Heart Line. "Fuck the God who creates a man to live without love." is what I've often said. Oh yes, I've said that often. Often indeed. Batesy used to tell me that my problem was that I didn't have a sense of humour. He's a fuckwit - there is no Humour Line. Anyway, there isn't much use for humour where I'm from.
"You gonna drink that?" The old boy across the aisle asks me, pointing to the bottle of water on my table. My reveree not fully pierced, I look at his pointing finger before I connect it with the words he'd just spoken. Impatient, he repeats his question adding "That bottle'll be getting warm and if it's not drunk it'll be nae use fae ye then." I say nothing. I'm still not with him. I'm still with the Humour Line thought. "How do we know that there isn't a Humour Line?" I wonder to myself. "My hands say I'm supposed to have had two children... boys. I don't have any kids. Perhaps they aren't children lines? Perhaps they are laughter lines? Perhaps I am to laugh twice? But twice? Twice what? Twice a day? A week? A lifetime?"
I must have asked the last few questions aloud because the old boy had interjected with "Some aff us ae built fae the laughin, and some aff us ae built fae the laughin AT." He was standing beside me now, struggling with the screw-top of the bottle. But there is no reveree so deep that my Anger is unable to awaken me. Seeing this old fossil helping himself to my water released the spring which extended my arm, snatched the bottle, and issued forth: "You fucking wrinkled fucker, I didn't buy that so that you could just piss it down your trouser leg." The old boy's bottom lip quivers, as he turns and shuffles to his seat.
I return to the inspection of my hands. Yeah, OK, Batesy was right. I don't have a sense of humour.