Triple H, Life Gone Bad

Triple H, Life Gone Bad

Some mornings, when I first open my eyes, the world looks rosy, but after a few minutes up and about, reality sets in. The world is a horrible, unkind place. No matter how optimistic I try to be, deep down I know there are no real people. Kindness doesn’t exist. Gentleness, politeness, compassion and consideration were someone’s cruel jokes.

Out of despair, out of isolation, out of oppression march the grim muses. Muses that bite. Fearless, unshakable muses that keep me company when the people who pretend to be civil ignore me and sneer at me.

I write to occupy my mind and to leave behind the people who have their own agenda. I’m only essential to them when they need something I ordinarily provide. I’m an entertainer, a servant and a provider. I’m not much else.

It’s impossible to be depressed if you work hard, but what’s wrong with me isn’t depression. It’s reality. It’s not an imagined condition. It’s the way the world is. I should know. I’ve tried. I’ve put myself out there and been snubbed when I was reaching out.

People who pretended to be my friends either tried to take advantage of me or became convinced that I was whacked, so they were repelled. I had to be okay with that. I just went with it.

Everybody knows the good die young while assholes live forever. Which should I be? I don’t want to die. Even though the world is shit and people give me constant misery, I can still enjoy my writing. I can read about that false love that’s so popular with the American culture. I can play app games on my laptop and exchange text messages from my pseudo-friends. It doesn’t have to be the worst of the worst. When one thing fails, you move on to the next. That’s the way I handle it.

My eyes are getting bad, so in private, I put on reading glasses and read my ever-present paperback mystery novels. I could read Tom Clancy thrillers forever. Dean Koontz, Stephen King, John Grisham, James Patterson, John Sanderson, they’re my friends, my companions, my entertainment. They’re my salvation.

Though he was a pain the ass, I miss Shawn. Above all the rest, he was fun. He listened, laughed and offered kind-hearted words when I needed them most. I won’t live in the past, so I’ll move on, but friendless.

Writing story-lines has become part of my daily routine. It keeps me busy, but too often, true situations comes out in the manufacturing of feuds. I wish they were only stories.

Too often, it’s too real.

My thoughts were interrupted by CM Punk, who wandered into my private space unannounced. On his face was a smirk, as usual. “Hey, Trips, what’s shakin’?” he greeted mildly.

“My hands,” I quipped. “In anticipation of what you’ve come here to tell me.”

“Funny,” he said. “I’m actually thinking about coming out of the closet.”

I snorted. “Out of the closet? I thought you came out already. In fact, you kicked the door off the hinges on your way out! Nobody doubts your sexual persuasion anymore.”

“Really? I thought I was being discreet.” He tapped his cheek with one finger, pondering. “So, what’re you doing?”

“I’m busy being crazy,” I said. “So state your case and vamoose.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one,” he said, waving it off. “I’m a fucking lunatic.”

“Tell me more,” I encouraged dryly.

“Until recently, I was going through this period of doing everything to keep from causing trouble.”

I shook my head. “I must’ve missed that. You’ve always been way more trouble than you’re worth.”

“No, I was doing everything. I cut off my hair. I ate less, took up less space. I didn’t infringe on anybody else’s goods. I was being really selfless.”

“Well, I see you got over it.” I turned my back to him and studied my words on the laptop’s screen. “Are you planning to make a big announcement about being gay or did you want the camera to catch you in the act of fucking some guy?”

He was quiet, so I turned back to see his face. It was stricken. “Neither,” he said quietly. “I just kinda wanted to hint at it a little.”

I wanted to be smug, but his reaction made him look vulnerable and scattered. Before I could stop myself, I reached out and hugged him. “Sorry,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’m an asshole.”

He laughed nervously and hugged me back. “I’m good with that. I’ve put up with assholes so long I don’t think I’d feel right if somebody was suddenly nice to me.”

“Yeah, me, either,” I said. I closed the laptop and grabbed my coat. “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m buying.”

“What are we going to talk about?” he asked.

I locked the door behind us. “Maybe about how crazy we are,” I suggested.

His smile was nice. I felt unreasonable optimism, and I accepted that.