reality is illegal

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My dear Peggy had turned me in for speaking the truth too forcefully. I was going to prison. I had a few hours to wrap up my affairs, say my good-byes, and get my ass to prison. I gave her my most prized possession, my huge alpaca sweater, knowing she could get the cigarette smell out of it and be comfy while she pored over Ancestry dot com arcana with her "cousin" [3rd, once removed] and sipped her evening cocktail with her husband, the incomparable Jim.

Then I went to go say good-bye to Eighty-Six. His ex was there for some reason and about to get snippy with me until I saw his new truck pull up. She was gobsmacked I knew it was him, despite the completely different color and make of his truck.

"But nines needs a ride to prison," she was sputtering.

I stood there and watched that not even registering, watched him ignoring me completely in favor of freaking out to force her out of his house. I really had wanted him to drive me to prison in his shiny new truck, but he was clearly more concerned with petty hatreds.

Seeing me dejected, some loady bystander told me he'd drive me.

He got me a few blocks nearer, but passed out behind the wheel.

I set out on foot, worried that if they called down an APB on me, I'd be too dead to worry about prison anymore. I knew the way, but the roads were washed out and the dingbats from The View were giving tours of the flood devastation.

Then the ground started running like a river and I saw a pair of my underwear drift by. I was nearly roused from my deadpan acceptance of the lethal pain of everything as it is when I suddenly felt myself needing to get up and pee.

pipe up any time....