a romantic plastic piece of shit you can mold

the other day, in greeting, someone said to me, "how's it going?"

i replied, "uuuuuhhh, good, very good."

uuuuuhhh? what the hell is that?!? like i don't know that i am doing good? like i was unsure as to whether i had gotten a good night's sleep, and already had my coffee, and that the kids weren't getting on the bus to spend several hours in school, allowing me to accomplish some running around, most of which was stupid shit i didn't need to do but wanted to just cause it would be fun?

i actually cracked myself up, and then had to explain away the puzzled look.

the saga of the prelude door latch has ended. or that is to say, i have tacked a "and they lived happily ever after" onto it and called that particular story closed.

but here's the thing, o my droogs and beloved non-existant readers: i don't believe there ever really is an end. writers and story tellers bring to close a story at a moment that suits them for the needs of the narrative. i could, if i wanted to bore you to no end, and had an eternity to jot it down, follow the day-to-day happenings of the new door latch (the old door latch has this very day gone on to change its story from that of a door latch to that of an object moldering in a landfill.) until it too becomes an object in a landfill, or smashed into a tin can lid, or whatever other conclusion it would reach. and that still wouldn't be the end, o my non-existant readers, it would simply switch from the story of a latch to the story of a lid, and on and on, ad infinitum.

and death is not really an end either. even if you buy into the "no-afterlife-except-that-of-wormfood" theory. because someone we knew and loved carries on with the story, albeit changed. and when they are gone, someone new carries it still further. each move we makes leaves ripples throughout eternity, some of which stay embedded in a conciousness somewhere.

man, and where did all that come from? shit.

where was i? oh yes, the door latch is in, and on top of that, g and i put in a new stereo and got the foglights working. i am quite pleased.

so we took the old cd player and put it in our other car (which had an am/fm cassette, which is pretty fucking worthless in this day and age), and i wanted to get an in-dash storage bin to fill the gap.

so off to my favorite 20-acre salvage lot. you know how they say, "it's always in the last place you look." and comedians have had a heyday with that, quipping, "cause you don't keep looking!"?

i kept looking. i wandered around and looked in every car they had on the lot that matched mine. just because. because it was sunny. because i had nowhere better to be. because i fucking love junkyards, and daydream about taking some of the vehicles i find there and fixing them up.

and because the lot guys drive mad max vehicles around to pick up parts. shit you not, my mildly amused and oh-so-willing-to-humor-me non-existant readers. i was passed by an ex-cop car crown vic with big steel girders welded to front and back bumpers to prevent damage from nudging wreckage and parts bungee-corded to the roof. a camry very similar to my pizza delivery car prior to the prelude was idling in one row, missing the entire front grill/bumper/lights, and the trunk lid. a dodge reliant with the roof cut open and a large acetalyne welding rig in place of what would've been the back seat blew dark clouds of smoke around me as i eyed a rather cool-looking celica.

i was drooling by the time i got to the counter.

i keep coming up with possible excuses to go back and wander the lot some more.

my wife thinks i am crazy.

i know she is right.

darth sardonic