Little Willie came over this evening. He was shot. Re-living his past thru the books of his childhood, his mothers' keepsakes, art she'd made, a life-time of memories to be distributed between the children and absorbed and dealt with both emotionally and physically.
I'd been weeding the succulent garden in my ratty, old shorts and paint-splattered halter top. We drank a beer in the back, back yard and talked about how disillusioned we are about the general state of affairs of the human race (mostly North Americans, specifically those from The United States), the whole "Entitlement" thing and the fact that we as a nation are so Fucking spoiled, had it good for a long time and have been fed this constant b.s. that "we" DESERVE it ALL, NOW, and CHEAP. Step on the head of your brother. Can't even bother to say Thanks when a door is held open for you. Whatever happened to The Golden Rule? Common courtesy, manners, respect, giving a shit?
Anyway, we decided to head out to the gas station to pick up some more beer, maybe let a little lighter conversation would ensue. He went in as I hadn't changed into something more appropriate for for such a fine establishment. Seconds after William got inside I found a stray dog running from the street into the parking lot, completely disoriented. She had been recently attacked by another dog with a big scab on her ear.
Long story short, a gal at the pumps thought she knew who the dog belonged to. Followed her to someone's house, wasn't the right dog. Another gal at the station wanted her, she called me, they were on their way to pick her up. Waited in the front yard, got a text that her husband didn't want another dog. Now, she is at our house for the night. Only one night.
I'm in trouble, again. See, I have a history.
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