On Everythin's Eventual
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A couple of days ago I finished reading that book by Stephen King.
The book includes a story with the same name about a young man named
Dink Earnshaw, who has discovered a supernatural force to draw shapes
that can kill his enemies. I guess you know one shape associated with murder.
One famous victim is a bully named Skipper,
who abuses him at work. He works later as a pizza delivery boy, and one
day he meets Mr. Sharpton, who offers him a better job: to use his skills
to kill those "Skippers" and make the world better. The job comes with
some incredibly attractive perks. But now, it is a job and Dink cannot
just kill people because he wants to kill them. Furthermoe, he knows
nothing about his new victims and the wrongs they've done.
This job reminds me more than somewhat of some hi-tech jobs, people find
attractive just because of the perks.
Dink does not see the little people who supplies him with the perks on
his wish list, or maybe even does not want to see them. I guess they are
just like what he was in the past.
Dink reminds me of myself a little bit: sometimes I feel that I have his
powers when I write my thoughts and feel that something happens because I
have posted them.
For example, I think that what I'm going to do with the family simply sucks.
I don't think I will enjoy the activity. I don't like to go there by car
with others, stopping at red traffic lights, advancing slowly in traffic jams,
and on top of that someone with an urge to pee.
Then, the activity is cancelled because someone is ill and goes to the
hospital.
Something else I published recently is that I would be glad to serve in
Lebanon just to tell my parents that I'm a man. Then, the other day I
read a tweet of criticism about a brig. gen. who stepped into one of
Hezbollah's tunnels risking his life and his soldiers' just to display
masculinity.
Last but not least: a couple of days before the great power-failure of
winter 2013-2014 in Jerusalem and its surroundings, I pulished in a local
social network that I was going to pass the winter without electric heaters
of any kind. The poser-failure has lasted about 3 days.

So, the horror stories Stephen King writes are about us after all.