Pig Pen

Fortune cookie proverbs, “Fall down seven times, get up eight.” Sound advice. Lovely sentiment. Kiss my ass. I like it down here in the dirt. It's grimy and people are scrambling to move away. The real-estate is cheap. There is no Home Owner's Association knocking on your door wanting dues to be paid. Down here in the dirt nobody cares what the yard looks like.

I like it down here. Which is good, because I'm pretty sure I broke my leg when I fell off my high horse and lost my crown of hypocrisy. Fall down seven times, get up eight. You've got to keep on trying! You're a cute little kitten and you just need to, “Hang in there!” Whatever. This is my dirt. My pockets are full of it and it's under my fingernails. It's in my shoes. I've got mud on my face. I can taste the grit between my teeth. I love it.

Give me your dirt. I'll haul it away for free. I'm going to make mud pies and sell them two for one on Tuesdays. I'm going to take your dirt and plant a flower garden. All you saw was dirt. Grime. In a few months when the petunias start to bloom don't you dare come back around here wanting your dirt back. You will though, and I'm going to go dig through the dirt somebody else left, find a dirt clod, and chuck it at your freshly shampooed head.

From time to time as I've walked my way down the road of my flawed existence there have been people that have seen me stumbling along with my wheelbarrow full of dirt. Some have offered to help. They want to take a shovel and remove some of my dirt. It doesn't work like that. Whatever dirt you remove is going to be sitting right there where you left it waiting to get stuck on someone's shoes and then they're going to track it into the house. Drop the shovel and help me push the wheelbarrow. This is my dirt. I'm keeping it and somewhere along the way there is going to be a pile of dirt that someone else left behind. I'm going to scoop it up with my hands and put it right here on top of my other dirt.

Dirty is the word of the day.

Also, where is your wheelbarrow? Where did you leave your dirt? Are you trying to hide from it? Did you go wash your hands and imagine that all of a sudden you're clean? Give me back my wheelbarrow and go find yours wherever you left it. When you catch back up we will get us a wagon or a dump truck and combine our dirt. Don't you damn dare come back wringing your sanitized hands in a freshly bleached shirt.

Fall down seven times, get up eight. You go ahead. I'm going to stay right down here with the worms, the rocks, and the dirt. I'm going to get grass stains on my jeans and watch the ants crawl across me. I'm going to get all itchy. If you insist that I get back up then I'm going to shake my head and crawl right to your best couch. Scotch Guard ain't got shit on my dirt. The best thing you can do once I crawl back out into the grime is to pull that couch out onto the yard and set it on fire.

When you get tired of washing your hands until they're red and raw, go change out of your school clothes, and you can come on down here with me. Don't forget your dirt, Pig Pen.