Tolerance

I used to think the word tolerance only meant that you had to do more drugs. In my age of infinite wisdom I have come to truly understand tolerance. Age has its way of mellowing out even the fastest of the fast life. Is it our body defining limits that it does not know? Maybe its our brains computing those limits that we do not feel. I am a relative young man. This means that I have a cousin younger than me. No, in terms of age, I am fifty. In my mind I feel no difference than, say, forty. I do, however, feel the difference physiologically. Assigning a number is a better way to go when it relates to age. It is raw, yet simple. Time will cover far more years than one number. I will give you an example. "Do you remember the time I crashed my car?" versus "Do you remember when I was sixteen and I crashed my car?" Huge difference. Many or one. Time is more complex than a specified date. You will hear more statements relative to a specific era from me than time, alone. It is simpler and less convoluted. My six pounds of grey matter does not process information like it used to and my chiseled beer gut on my 196lb. frame is not the efficient body of my youth. I have learned to tolerate myself. later, theblogmeister

LOST

I feel like I am a tiger that has lost its stripes. An elephant without a trunk. A bee that can't find its hive. Salt without pepper. A warm beer. Although, a warm beer to some would be appealing. Not me, though. Nope. There was a time not that long ago, I would enter a post quite regularly. I had even started writing a novel. A novel idea, to me. I had gotten up to speed. Par for the course. Cruising. Letting words flow. Like warm butter. Smooth as silk. Like water off a ducks back. A breeze. Then something dramatic happened to me. I met this slick bastard. Oil slick. He could sell ice to an Eskimo. No offense, Nanook. As the saying goes, the rest is... I can't remember. You get my drift. Does this all sound cliche'? I don't, either. Fresh as a new fallen snow. Clear as a bell. Where was I? Oh yea, drama. My new found freedom to write plum escaped me. I was healed. My writings originated from my Id. Well, maybe it was my nightmares. That's the ticket. My hypnotherapist got around to quelling my phobias. Done a real good job, too. Sleep like a baby. Forgot how to write. I guess I'll ask him for a refund. I need to be sleepless in Seattle. You know what I'm saying. I gotta get back to where I once belonged. Get back, JoJo. I will be a'callin. You know who you are. theblogmeister