I look out the window and through the gray of my omni-fucking-present cigarette smoke, the day is gray. And gray. And, oh yes, gray. Snowflakes flitter slowly down, rendering the backyard a soft white carpet.
I swallow some more of the omni-fucking-present coffee. The inside of my stomach is a friggin Starbucks. But without all the hype and the pretentiousness.
My dogs are somewhere. Wait, I know where they are: one of them will be laying by the heating vent and the other will be curled, snout to tail, on the overstuffed armchair.
I look out the window again. Yup, still gray. And gray. And, oh yes, gray.
By some (man-made) cosmic accident, today is a day that only comes around once every four years. If you were born on a Leap Year, would you celebrate your birthday on February 28th or on March 1st? I think I would celebrate mine on March 1st--kind of like a rebirth thing. February is just so fucking dreary. March is a month with purpose; just look at the name, for God's sake! March to it. Whereas February is a month in which even the spelling is a pain in the ass. How many times did you spell it (or pronounce it) "Febuary," with the "R" nowhere to be found? Shit, I just looked at the kee-rect spelling of the word and it reminded me of "mortuary." Maybe it's just the kind of mood that I'm in.
In the adjoining room, Bob Marley says to me: "Open your eyes, and look within/ are you satisfied with the life you're living?"
Well, Bobby, for the most part, yes. Thanks for asking, sir.
Now Marley sings, "Ex-ee-dous! Movement of jah people."
Exodous, indeed, Bobby. Exodous out of this gray fucking world and into a green one, resplendent with the smell of freshly-mown grass and burgers on the grill and images of blue skies and white puffed clouds.