bingo.

  I wake up at 6am.  Taste the pasty taste in my mouth.  Wine from the night before.  Lay still.  Look at the ceiling.  Alone.  In Rylee’s bed.  My four year old daughter’s bed.  Rylee in Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed.  Slowly slip out of bed.  Do not want to wake Rylee up.  Everything wakes her up.  She is a fireball.  Non-stop energy.  Full of life.  Full of hope.  Full of fun.  Full of happiness.  Full of sadness.  Full of anxiety.  SHE IS REAL.  Not like the rest of our pathetic lifeless society.  Bingo scratch cards.  Shitty reality tv shows.  Pathetic celebrity magazines.  Everybody wasting life away.  Closer and closer to death.  Don’t want to die.  Don’t want to get old.  Wrinkles.  Restless.  Useless.  Painful.  Forgetful.  Sad.  Alone.  Seeing old ladies at the coffee shop.  Skinny.  Wrinkled.  Fidgety.  Timid.  All alone.  Soon to die.  Getting in people’s way.  She can’t sit still.  This old lady with her red hat.  Red scarf.  Red sweater.  Who dressed her today?  Do old people look closely in the mirror?  Do they look at old pictures of themselves?  Pictures when they were young.  Young and pretty.  Healthy.  Full of hope.  Full of life.  Sadness creeping in.  Walking into Mom’s room and finding old love letters hidden under her pillow.  Twenty years ago I found a dildo under her pillow now I find old love letters.  Watching my Mom trying to keep busy.  Trying to feel useful.  Dog sitting.  Cat sitting.  Gardening.  Weeding.  Housesitting.  All useless jobs.  Meaningless jobs.  IRRELEVANT JOBS.  Jobs that are given to my Mom to make her feel useful.  Jobs that are taken by my Mom to make her feel useful.  My Mom getting old.  Trying to hang on.  Colouring her hair.  Wearing tacky glitzy clothes to make her feel younger.  Driving her old beat up smelly white Toyota Corolla.  Filled with cigarette buts.  Buried in the right lane.  Two hands on the wheel.  Driving down to see Rylee.  Hoping Rylee will like her.  She brings down a donut for Rylee.  Brings down a toy.  Mind racing.  Always racing.  One second closer to death.  So am I.  Hate getting old.  More rules.  More responsibilities.  More wrinkles.  More fat.  More aches.  Less fun.  Less sex.  Less hope.  Less excitement.  Less life.  My 6am coffee at Second Cup is my big excitement for the day.  Listening to old beat up construction workers talk about how shit their jobs are.  Scratching bingo cards.  Hoping for a way out.  A way out of their shitty lives.  Day after dreary day.  Waking up at 5am.  Shit coffee.  Take a shit.  Eat some toast.  Make a shit lunch.  Leave their suburban house.  Drive to shit job site.  Shoot the shit with other miserable construction workers.  Start working.  Hammering.  Pounding.  Digging.  Tugging.  Pushing.  Sweating.  Doing everything but thinking.  Twelve hour day ends.  6pm.  Job ends.  Pack up.  Dirty as shit.  Smelly as shit.  Driving home in shitty traffic.  Same shit radio.  Everything shit except their car.  Nice car.  Fast car.  Fancy car.  FUCKING IDIOTS.  Wasting all of their money on “souping up” their shit car.  Whole shitty existence.  Shitty life.  Boring life.  Hard life.  All of this to have a nice car.  Arrive at home.  Dead tired.  Smelly.  Dirty.  Need shower but too tired to move.  Too sore to play.  Plop smelly ass on couch.  Flick shitty tv channels.  Grab a Molson Canadian.  Mumble a few words to fat wife.  Bark a few orders to lazy kids.  Then fall asleep.  Sleep for six hours.  Wake up.  Go through same old shitty routine.  Next day same thing.  Next day same thing.  On and on it goes.  The boredom.  The pain.  The torture.  Day after dreary day.  Just hoping for that Bingo card win.  That Bingo card win that will get them out of their miserable shitty lives.  Not knowing that nobody wins in stupid fucking phony Bingo cards.  THEY ARE ALL FAKE.  ALL PHONY.  ALL LOSERS.  NO WINNERS.  LIFE FULL OF PHONY LOSERS.  PATHETIC.  SAD.  LIFE FULL OF CHASING.  HOPING.  WASTING.  TALKING.  JUDGING.  WORKING.  BARKING.  PANICKING.  DYING.  WE ARE ALL DYING.