I spent three hours today repeatedly firing shotguns at small clay targets as they zipped through the air. Quickly finishing off beers before it was my turn to hurl pigeons off of the roof of the trailer home. Screaming and dancing all the while savoring the sound of each blast ricocheting through the surrounding hilltops. Making obscene comments and occasionally debating which persons grasp of classical mechanics would predict the outcome of a vast cornucopia of trick shots.

I’ve been a friend to people whose business practices fall well outside of the written law for at least five years. People who could be considered petty criminals with college degrees have comprised the majority of my friendships. Smart folks who can’t stand the grind of a nine to five or just can’t stay still long enough to do what someone else demands them to accomplish. I never really intended it but I came to the realization that I cannot connect with people who cannot fathom taking risks or living outside of any established rules. There I was, slightly drunk and looking down the barrel of a loaded shotgun at a blaze orange clay pigeon and thinking that I prefer the company of brigands and rogue scholars to people with legitimate ways of living.

And with the company I keep come interesting offers and schemes that if executed present a minimal amount of risk with huge returns. The only catch is that you may have to explain your actions and the evidence against you to a stout white man with an oversized black robe and a gavel. Though when you could completely eliminate all of your student loans and have enough left over to travel all over the globe for a year the thought of one hours work of extortion looks very tempting. Especially when the work you might do is against a low-life miscreant instead of someone innocent.

So I’m on the corrugated metal roof of a trailer home getting the subtle third degree concerning my mental fortitude and opinions on incarceration. Stupid and innocent little questions or comments carefully hiding their true intent but put in such a way as to be “talking” without really “talking”. Just thinking about the whole thing makes tingle in strange new ways. It’s cliched all to hell but you really only do live once.

The only memories I have of living are the reckless ones or recollections where I did what I wanted to when I wanted to because I possessed the knowledge that all of the insignificant details and mindless trappings of society mean absolutely nothing. Humans need excitement and exploration and since I don’t have access to a multimillion-dollar lab or access to a large radio satellite array I need other excursions to fill this void. You never hear about the “great literary critics of our time” or “The Ultimate Officious Meddler” because doing counts a lot more than quiet observation and cynical debates about pointless abstractions with other pedantic knuckleheads.

My needs dictate determination, creativity and a powerful lust to devour all that is good about being a psychotic naked ape traipsing his bald ass across this weird existence.