On this day, three years ago, I came very close to strapping dynamite around my midriff with the intention of running directly into the path of a truck piled high to the rafters with McDonald’s hamburgers. This would have resulted in a hail-storm of all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce and cheese. This would have been my end. At the time I was dressed up as Ronald McDonald and as I had no change of clothes I had to spend an hour on the bus in that stupid costume. But I got to do a lot of soul searching.
    It’s a story too long to get into here but I had a series of epiphanies, a coming to my senses that afternoon and over past three years I’ve been trying to find my way back into society. Over the past month I’ve been writing a story everyday under a different name because I’m exploring protest in these non-violent means. I still hate McDonald’s but I no longer intent on blowing any of their property up.
    Some mornings I wake up from a nightmare of my body parts flying up into the air alongside chunks of frozen patties intended for McDonald’s. I wake up and shout, “I’ll have a happy combo !!” Life is still tough but I’m getting by.
   One day at a time.
   Here’s today’s hold on sanity…

The Murderer and the Know It All 

   In the middle of the field the two men stand nose to nose. Wind blows the surrounding barley so that it leans towards the setting sun. The sky above is a light blue. The men’s faces are red.
   “You’re a goddamn murderer,” the one snarls at the other. “There’s nothing in you but hatred.”
    “You’re wrong,” says the other. He tries to take in a breath deep enough to satisfy his lungs but his heart is beating at such a frantic pace that it will need more and more oxygen. He stretches and then circles his toes in his right shoe to alleviate some of the energy. He tries to stand perfectly still.
    “You were born a murderer and you were raised a murderer. Your food is murderer food,” he spits this out with venom but they both stare at each other wondering what murderer food might look like.
   “Murderer food ?”
    “Murderer food is one of the six food groups. But there are also murderer restaurants and in some grocery stores there are aisles with murderer food, aisles that are kept separate from the rest of the store because nobody wants to work the murderer aisles and so they stock the shelves with those robots that are used to dismantle bombs. The murderer food group is also kept separate from all the others out of similar fears.” His lips move in a paroxysm of rage but the rest of his body holds firm and fast to the belief that he’s absolutely right. In fact, his unflinching stance is proof of his correctness. 
   “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You’re a stinking murderer. Your mother is a murderer and she bore you in her murderer womb.”
    And so the one man, who’s finally been pushed to his limits, takes out a knife from the back of his jeans and stabs the other in the middle of his stomach. He pulls the knife up his belly while looking deep into the man’s dying eyes.
   “I’m not a murderer.” 
     As the spirit slows slips from the man’s body it whispers out, “I told you so. I knew I was right. I was so right.”