Pointless Shit

Not that it makes a difference, but this shit is getting me down. It’s sort of like the chicken bone that gets stuck in your throat; craw bone is what my granddaddy called it, not a wishbone, cause wishing and hoping are pointless, like a dagger tattoo or cranking drain unclogger. It’s all pretty much pointless, in a dim fucked up kind of way. Life is like a chicken bone, not pretty, but effective. My grandmamma made chicken pot pie with crinkly crust and soap mix. She said the key ingredient was the chicken bones cause they added flavour to the pot-pie. I was the poor sod that always got the chicken bone, or a piece of chicken gristle or skin. One time I half-swallowed a bone, a breastplate or one those finger-like bones that keep the wings from flapping out of control. My granddaddy had to whack me on the back with the heel of his hand; otherwise I would have choked myself to kingdom fucking cum, and that would’ve been shit. For the love of it I can’t stand loud noises, they drive me round the bend, further sometimes. I’m what you’d call sensitive to noises, all sorts and kinds of noise. I’m pretty much deaf in one ear and loosing it in the other, down to a few measly decibels, which are running short real quick. The doctor who looks after my ears said I’d be pretty much stone-deaf by the time I hit fifty, maybe sooner if the world gets noisier and people louder. It’s all pretty much pointless, cause the way I see it the shits going to hit the fan long before I hit fifty, and even if it don’t, they’ll be other shit lined up waiting to take its place, maybe worse shit, shit that’ll make the other shit look measly and small. Most shit is shit anyhow, so there really isn’t any point to worrying about it, really. The way I see it they’re be more people yelling and hollering and acting like dim fucks long before anything changes, and even if it does, changes that is, the shit’ll already have hit the fan, so what’s the point.