I’m exercising my dark humor here, but I assure you, it ends well.

I’m posting this excerpt because I paid my new health insurance premium this week. And rather than rant about how I must have “Sucker” printed on my forehead, and how I believe that people in suits who’ve never paid for their own health insurance in their lives need not dictate how much the rest of us can afford to pay, I thought I’d rant better than that. I don’t have the answers. I paid the dumb bill. Oh, but I hear the call to action.

Hell’s Suburb (excerpt, December 2013)

“A” never talks to “B” here. There is much paperwork, there are complications, the necessities are numerous, and expensive. To live in Hell’s Suburb, one needs plenty of insurance in case one should try to live. There is car insurance, life insurance, death, home, health, pet, and, because it’s ironic, vacation insurance. People who don’t take vacations buy it.

The movies are predictable and the surprises have all been used up, long ago, while we were busy buying our insurance.  The thing is, if you stay distracted, you don’t notice.

We in Hell’s Suburb are surrounded by the undead, non-living, the dull, and some actors. This is not Dante, this is not fire and brimstone. This is bureaucracy, tedium, and lack of forward movement. This is a drone-like slumber.

We grow up listening to the stories of old men telling us that escape from this is impossible, but we were born with the childlike wonder to know we can. We armed ourselves with plastic swords and light sabers and donned our red capes and we knew better than the adults. We’d show them. We would be different.

So we’ll get back to the days before our inspiration was stolen, when we believed in ourselves, back to when our worst problem was the monster under the bed, yet every night we went to that bed and we faced that fear and in its wake, we dreamed the dreams of super heroes.