I have so many thoughts that ping around in my head.  They are like sliver steelies shot out firing up and lighting up that brainiac pin ball machine.  I shoot the metal ball out and it hits targets, lights flash, and I keep drinking the caffeine keeping the pulsating  side buttons flapping.
“Oh, yeah baby,” in a heat I can hear myself murmur, “lets see you beat that high score.”

I am a complete arcade junkie.  I lean to the side and speak to the twelve year old child next to me wanting to take that turn. Picture me with that cigarette hanging off my lip, doing that smooth hand wave and shifting my weight over to my ultra smooth and cool right hip.  I slur, “watch and learn kid,” showing experience when really all I have is nothing.  I have nothing figured out and keep shooting out sliver balls not even knowing why I am shooting and what I am aiming for.

When I get near to that high score I wane.  I know this game too is flawed and damaged and I get that raw sinking feeling inside.  I tell myself I need to slide in another quarter, take another go around, something is bigger and better and I will beat that last 100 point score.  Just need another game and another racket or buy myself another ticket.  When I get to that 1000 point destination I don’t want to be there anymore.  A constant addiction for the next best thing. 

Now out of these endless games I happened to chance upon that fire eater.  The tattooed bald one earring man that skillfully swallows knives and—- yes you may have guessed it. 

I don’t want him to eat that sword blazing stick—

At least not for me. 

I don’t want to be that person that has to ask him to and I don’t want to have to give anything to that man in return for his show.  I secretly want him to perform amazing tricks giving me my very own V.I.P. ticket but I don’t want to have to pay that premium price.    I think I want the dancing ponies and circus clowns to tumble out bringing me coffee, changing flat tires, switching filters out of the heat vents, long foot and back rubs, calling me at random times throughout that work day letting me know I am amazing, beautiful, and easy on the eyes.  I mean this particular fire eater actually spends quality time with his 11 year old nephew, takes care of his widowed mother, is on track to be a 401K millionaire, is younger than I am, has never been married, no drama, no baggage, has nice legs, thighs, arms and yes has those really dreamy and soft and deer like eyes. 

 He says this show is just for me…………so

What the fuck is my problem?

The problem people is that I know that the game over sign is eventually going to light up even if I do hit that jackpot.  That cigarette is going to burn down to the filter and that foggy smoke brings cancer, the eyes always get red and tired, hands get sick of smacking the sides of that lit up blinking box, and that steelie ball will get cold and still.  After all that initial fun the arcade and circus janitors are called to clean up discarded tickets, cotton candy cones, cup lids and chewed up sipping straws. 

The prancing ponies leave that manure mess and a broom and shovel are always required.  The circus tent gets taken down and all that’s left are the crickets.

Cricket….cricket…..cricket and I am spent, tried, drained and down more quarters than I care to count.