Meatball Mail

Some people get greeting cards in their mailbox; Oggy gets frozen meatballs. And his mail box is a paint tray. If I live long enough I will deliver food bank frozen meatballs to the kid trying to fix my 40 year old furnace. I'll consider it payment for his labor. I will be blind and have no memory of my days in the oil field and will long have ceased to log in to my blog because I forgot the password or the point. My friends will be dead from heart attacks and economic hardships. Their children will never think of me.
The kid renting my converted apartment will be good-natured but due to his selfish waste of his prime years in pointless contemplation he will have little practical knowledge, but his willingness to attempt to fix the heating problem in my decaying house will far surpass the capitalistic selfishness of the HVAC masters who wouldn't lift a finger to help me without seeing a green dollar sign first. And this will comfort me in my crooked lonely death bed. We choose a path and the path becomes a gauntlet that we defend and the gauntlet becomes our own delusional dream and the dream morphs into meatballs for pasta dinners. Cling to your importance while you still have the energy. The dinners you will eventually gum down your gullet are being prepared and the wild bird seed you will purchase to feed your only companions is being loaded onto a truck. Years tick away while the plodding despair of maniacs echos down the hallways of your future funeral home.