According to a New Orleans Times-Picayune story, "Brian told his family that he knew he was going to heaven and that he wanted to meet Jesus wearing his Chris Paul jersey."
There's some good out there people, a basketball player has been turned into a vicar of small-good-things, providing a lift to a city, a league, and National Public Radio. The character of Chris Paul, (not the man as I don't know him, but the idea of him) is the sort of story I would usually exalt in. Happy to be here. Happy to be alive.
Right now?
It makes me feel fucking filthy. My hands are coated with dirt, sweat, and the grease of thousands of wasted hours. I wash them but the air is so thick with waste that washing is just a waste of time.
The past week, the latest in a long line of eras, has been neatly compressed in the routines of requirements, rest, and recreation. These are tenants societies are founded upon. They provide a neat structure and enable one to taste the spice of life. No matter how liberal or reformist someone might be, it is hard to coax the argument that these things are ultimately and resolutely terrible.
A lecherous fat is seeping out the edges, pervading our interactions, and dirtying our hands.
Time to care.
Time to do.
Time to try.
I know I'm sparking myself up with a basketball player but we need to be called out. A generation of fat, lazy slobs is looking inevitable. Even fun time, getting high and running around, is losing it's luster. These adolescent dreams are turning into adulthood nightmares.
A big change is coming. For all of us. We won't realize we've gone through it until it's too late
man. fuck. where did youth run off to?
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