Happy Fun Cog

I've been reading a great book lately. I won't mention the title lest I offend people with scrunched tastes in Southern literature, though if one were to look for it in a library it could be find by searching for "Edisto." Anyway, a particular passage struck me as being fitting to this part of my life, excluding the promiscuous drifters, fish, juke joints, and imperious but ultimately practical mothers:

This was heavy news. Taurus was good as gone. That didn't really bother me, especially because of the yet confusing whiskey revelation, but I knew I'd get over that and like him the same for showing me all he did, in the end. But I hadn't figured leaving the neighborhood - accessible mullet and the Baby Grand, the sporting life, being the Duchess's boy, and all that. That would be tough. I just figured I'd be tough, something was finally happening good or bad for damn sure, and if the good old days were on a respirator, I'd do them the service of going around and pulling the plug.