Thinking Of Bastards

I hunch, thinking of bastards. Head in hands tucked between knees, I rock back and forth gently, such is the physical effort of exerting a weary mind.

It has become important to me that I list all the bastards I have so far encountered. Reasons can come later, but for now I am only trying to keep score. Bring order to chaos. Why this is so important to me remains a mystery, but what I do know is that the list is vital to me, whereas reasoning is not. So the bastards win.

Eighty-two seems like a plausible figure. This is what I have so far. Eighty-two bastards have crossed my path in life up to now. Do I measure the length of my life by the bastards, or do I measure the bastards with my life? The number begs a question…

I won’t tell you my age. Age is the whole point to this exercise in self-immolatory inventory, the whole process is an equation, with one number affecting another number, to make other numbers. Years / bastards = regrets.

This is the reason why I spend a day listing the manipulators, the bullies, the liars, the cheats, the hypocrites, the traitors, the oppressors, the shin-kickers, the condescenders, THE GOBSHITES.

I tally them up to see how much of my life has been wasted at the hands of the scum, a small investment to take stock of my life. How much time have I wasted thinking of these people? I need to know and I wish I knew why, but all I do know is that I have so far listed eighty-two bastards, safe in the knowledge that if they all made such a list of their own, I wouldn’t be on any of theirs, because I am most certainly not a bastard.

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