Monday, 17 August 2015

A Life Full Enough To Fill Nothing But A Postcard

If I could be anything, I'd be the most boring man that ever lived. I'd have a boring job and a boring wife and boring kids and I'd take boring shits. Every day, at a quarter past six. I'd always drink sensibly in the same bar and I'd never move house. At one point in my life, I'd contemplate having an affair. But as her hands moved to unbutton her blouse, I'd chicken out. My retirement party would be a quiet affair. I'd never see anyone who attended ever again. With a couple of them I'd exchange birthday and/or Christmas messages until one of our deaths. My funeral would be an even quieter affair. A few modest tears would be shed. And then I'd decay in the ordinary fashion. The maggots would devour me with a passion I never seemed capable of displaying in life. But no matter, I wouldn't be judged, for any memories of me would long since have faded in the boring minds of my boring children and boring wife.

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