The more I think about it, or don't think about it, the more I am convinced that we are all dragged down our particular paths, one way or another.

Back in the days of my youth, I lived in a place called St. Petersburg, Florida for a spell. Nearby in Tampa, Florida, USA there was a water park called Adventure Island. In this water park, there was a waterway that went round the whole thingamajig. All you had to do was get in, at any of the many available entry points, with or without a flotation device, and the current created by the multiple water jets would take you round the whole park. Swimming in the opposite direction was possible, albeit a pain in the arse. Especially for one so small as I was then.

Unlike the Adventure Island waterway, I don't know if it is actually possible to swim opposite the drag of life, as sometimes I think that even the supposed opposition we often feel, when willing our lives opposite the supposed flow, is part of the almighty drag. I doubt it is possible to know. I don't think I'm talking about destiny. I think I am talking about the amazing human ability of interpretation.

I know a guy who attributes meaning to everything. Every single goddamn thing. Every gesture, breath, hesitation, movement, occurrence, speck, fly, happening, newscast, event, non-event, plan, potentiality, and stain. MEANING.

Fascinating? Perhaps. Entertaining/engaging/mind occupying? Perhaps.

Useful? Lord only knows.

Me, I'm growing dumber everyday, I fear. Not sure if this is a good or bad thing. Not really thinking about it. Dumbness? Perhaps. Zen? Buddha only knows.

I had a friend once who called Gandhi "nigga Gandhi". I thought that was funny as hell. That guy got hooked on crystal meth and joined the army after his mom died to help him kick, spurred on by 9-11. He was one of the best musicians and funniest kids I knew. Now he has developed a real love of killing people and carrying a weapon, and refuses to take any job in which he doesn't get to carry a loaded pistol. Destiny? Perhaps. Interesting docu-biopic? To be sure.

In the end, my friend, all good things come round the bend.

The weather is getting me down.

I have a friend who loves this dreary, cold, gray weather. It makes her depressed, just like everybody else, and yet she claims to love this dreary, bland, blah, gray, poop, spittle, dribble, crappola weather. Does she truly love the weather? Perhaps. Does she love all sorts of things that make her sad and miserable? Perhaps. Is this destiny? Only nigga Gandhi knows.