Amnesia is for Amateurs

Revelation is a cruel thorn up the urethra as more things become apparent.  No one likes a line of head cheese Roy and when you attempt to go for a long time oblivious to the psuedonomics of make believe Fred Rogers is ready to smash you in the face with a broad head shovel.  Well that's the case for one Dr. Vidal Roaminart.

For several years wandering the empty spaces of a clouded mind searching for the right time to admit nothing is more futile than thinking there's more to this desolate maze than just piss runs to the can between halves.  So I discovered my "doctorship" (as it were) in caricature.  On the surface this makes total sense to me now and I can proceed to confuse the public with a dazzling display of humus churned out like a manure spreader in the tropics.  Nobody likes the spray of a shit wand when it's 108 degrees no wind and a dew point hovering around 80.  There is no official documentation available to prove this claim, all knowledge of the evidence was lost in transit.  Perhaps this is why I've been able to step in for my patient and carry on his workload and still try to put the pieces together to verify my own existence.  However, for good or all...Vidal Roaminart is a doctor of Caricature.

The new card in the deck is mental illness.  It carries a lot weight between the guilty and the un-guilty.  It won't get a 16 year old punk out of a speeding ticket but it can buy you time while awaiting a scumbag to defend your unfounded "misinterpretation" of committing some despicable act against humanity.  Once you've crossed over it's open season to plan the next caper unless by some stroke of good fortune you come to your senses or get another lawyer lined up and stay in country.  It is liberating to assume community of an unknown, unproven commodity instead of explaining this mockery of anonymity.  Don't break the law, don't get caught and especially, don't infuriate large groups of violent brutes with a lust to lash out.  They will gladly stomp your ass and think nothing of it.  Fair guidelines to keep in mind as long as no one gets hurt and the job gets done to the satisfaction of the client.

Heading towards the twilight years brother and all the "up and get going" types that flood this site will keep that light shining until the end.  In the grand scheme what's the difference between some amazingly successful power-stud still with angst in his pants and can run a marathon at 62 compared to some wheezing chain smoking scumbag with an inflamed liver and 5 years behind on his alimony payments?  State of mind, right?  I can do because I will do-so I will do instead of doobie do (Frank Sinatra at Altimont).  The way the crap shoot plays out won't amount to a pile of diddly squat in a hundred years but it is human nature to live this way.  Kerouac learned to get kicks in the moment.  I still remember his gin-swelled face under the hot lights of a studio struggling to maintain cogency while being "interviewed" by a cranked-up tv host about his life.  He very awkwardly read the last lines of "On the Road" and almost didn't finish.  Then it all crashed and the misery of his final 10 years or so was over.  William Burroughs took over 60 years to flame out.  Everyone took him seriously, just like Hunter S. and for good reason.  They lived through their words covered over with toxic madness.  They bounced between the thin line of madness and genius to blur reality and we bought it like refugees in a bread line.  Jesus...I've strayed from the point of this article and am at a point where I can't get my bearings.  After-effects is my guess and it will take some more medication to correct another gibberish-laden pile of the story.  Chalk it up to mental illness?  Probably not.  Another exercise of dry humping a keyboard in wide-eyed hysteria until someone gets wind of what I'm doing or the meds take over and there's a big empty ahead. 

Vidal Roaminart, Doctor of Psuedonomics