Welcome and please open your Human Carcass Life Time Owners manual to page 3, Chapter one. Everything you see, feel, hear, taste, and smell will impact your ride, so make the best of it. There are no dress rehearsals or study periods of any kind here folks. However, I will tell you that you have only one chance in this game, and I am sorry to say that your clock has already started. Will you draw the dreaded mimic card and mirror the anger and pain that you just might be unfortunate enough to store away back there in your deluxe human style treasure chest of paths to choose? Or will you opt to graciously pass on your turn at some point in the game, running with crazy reckless abandon from the dark out into the light, leaving routine behind? Many who play seem to spin in a kind of limbo confusion, never really understanding the rules while the grade school bully is pushing them into the puddle on the playground. Or someone goes and steals the velcro wallet from the back pocket of their forty-five dollar jeans. Even though the bull and thief hold the mimic card, they are light years away from earning any points. But I think that its all in how you choose to store those points accumulated that makes playing the game either completely worthwhile or a complete waste of time. Some spend their whole existence trying to be right, while others spend every filling of their lungs striving to be accepted. Many worry that they might not rate up to the level of the numerous other layers of people that surround them in their lives. All the while, never realizing that those people they are trying to immulate, are just wasting their time trying to keep up with some other scared lost soul thats wandering the landscape, confused and uncertain. It's like watching some seventy-year stock car race, one big stupid repetitive circle full of six billion corporate sponsored homespun carcasses. Some might crash and burn early in the race. Some might need to make a pit stop for some sort of service along the way. No one ever really wins, they just repeatedly circle and circle as fast as they possibly can in an all out frenzy to be first. I think that I'll just sit back and watch comfortably from home.
Not that I've graduated from the racing circuit, I just try to refrain from entering the track. Sure, I will get an itch and jump on the oval from time to time, but I'm trying to wean myself off of that whirlpool. But instinct and prior thought patterns are so willing to take over, that the next thing I know, I am out there doing one hundred and seventy miles an hour with my penzoil baseball hat on backwards and the Earnhart memorial commemorative limited edition insulated sweatshirt. I look in the mirror and see Speed Racer gritting his teeth as he mats the accelerator. Knuckles white, clenching the steering wheel with all his might. The engine, pushed to the limit, screaming along like a massive pack of angry wild horses. Hey, where's the remote? Lets see what's on the Discovery Channel.
