But Why Is The Rum Gone?

There’s a point of everybody’s life when it seems like if somebody had set out to irrevocably destroy you because you slaughtered their first born child with a blunt blade, they couldn’t have done it better than how you’re doing it to yourself at that particular time. Everything you’ve ever worked for has made a pact with divine providence and ended up suicide bombing you into a sky zit. It doesn’t necessarily have to make sense, and it may or may not be related to recent events. And before you know it, you realize that you’ve gone black swan on your own ass and it’s already too late to do anything about it but feel bad as it unfolds, slowly, one hour at a time. Then you wish and swear upon that uncertain entity in your head that has materialized through history and man’s tendency to prefer false hopes to having the engine running with nobody behind the steering wheel that if everything is alright again just this once, you’ll work your knuckles to the bone just to make sure it doesn’t happen again, because you deserve better. The whole corundum is that you don’t really know how you’re gonna feel now do you? You’re just bribing that vital force into going your way just this once so that you can contribute to its resource, but how would the vital force know for sure if you’re following through? After all it’s your ass on the line and it’s right there, unscathed, watching with a huge bowl of popcorn and a can of soda. Why would it go out of your way when you’re stumbling on your own little two feet? One knows better than to hire contractors that can’t walk the talk.