Annie

“The sun will come out tomorrow. Tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar, there’ll be sun!” 

I find there is an importance in keeping up to date with the news. The grass doesn’t seem to be greener on the other side of the world. More so, it seems to be completely engulfed in flames. Death and dissonance. The world meets it’s quota on both counts; filling with hatred before the sun makes it’s way through the clouds in my little section of the world.

Hell on Earth. This seems to be where we are rapidly growing, evolving, towards. The fractures in our social construction becoming ever more obvious. We continue finding ourselves at an impasse, unsure of which side is more ignorant. Surely the pessimist is smug in his cynical ignorance. Or, could it be the optimist stuck in ignorant bliss of sunny days?

Annie, get your gun. 

The news, with it’s consistent litany of tragedy, is enough to make anyone feel peer pressured into having a smoke. Or a sip. Anything really, to be momentarily displaced from the current, dismal, state of reality.

“Annie, you okay? You okay, Annie?”

We are at an odd place in the world where cute videos in our newsfeed are the only way to restore some sense of humanity. A lady in a cheap plastic mask, taking us out of brevity of human life.  And why not? We need superheroes and maybe women in cheap plastic masks can be that when it seems everything else in our day is filled with a weighted sadness.

Can you tell I am tired? My eyes are drooping. I look lazily out across my living room; wondering if the toddler-created destruction is nothing more than a microcosm of the real world. There is havoc. A losing battle to maintain order and cleanliness in the wake of consistent man-made destruction. With each new toy, I lose the battle, seceding the high ground to children who think nothing of their actions as they tip a cup or toss an item.

It would be nice to think we all grow out of the wreaking ruination stage of life. Yet, there is the news scrolling solemnly across the screen, showing we never grow up. We just get more sophisticated in our cup tipping.

“Big salty tears running down to her chin And it smears of her makeup I never wanna live”

Did I mention I am tired? I think we learn to become accustomed to the feeling of exhaustion, as if it is a pressure plate on our chest we grow numb to. The crushing feeling, forcing short respirations.

The sun will surely come out tomorrow. I don’t know that  I would bet my bottom dollar. There doesn’t seem to be any assurances I will be there to collect.

 

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Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.

 

 

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