Move away, from that.

I’m listening to Erin, a young woman, tell her story about being the daughter of a semi-famous media critic and crack addict father. It’s not relevant, but it’s better by distraction standards than what I’ve been pumping myself full of.

This is on the Fresh Air podcast. Lately I’ve been hearing ‘underwriting’ ads on this show that try to tell me what a green company Exxon is, those motherfuckers. I scream at the stream often enough.

I don’t hear that one now, but there’s an ad for a website company. It promises that with their service, ‘you’ will be able to tell your story exactly the way you want.

Another lie, almost as bad.

No website can do that for you, especially not one that comes in a can. You can’t buy a product that will magically make you able to tell your story, much less make it come out how you want.

As the weeks of freedom approach, I am so very doggedly ignoring the work I have to do to get over the hump to the promised land. I want it to be magically done. I want to feel the warm breeze of that freedom and to not have to work for it.

I haven’t filled up my tank with lies and death.

That is not definitive evidence of my nobility.