Well, I’ve had some Irish Red and giggled like a maniac while simultaneously singing along with Mel Brooks.  I remember the first time I saw History of the World: Part 1.  I was so little, and I didn’t get the jokes until I was much older, but one thing my father instilled in me was an undying love of Mel Brooks.  Well, he also instilled the importance of education, but my sense of humor, I inherited from him.  He’s an asshole, really, so the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.  It’s just good for me that I inherited my mother’s looks.

I was thinking today about how it seems like so many twenty-something males are whiny momma’s boys and the girls have all become hard and independent.  If I would talk about my work, I would be able to give you proof of how I came into this theory, but alas.  I try to keep that part of me separate from Tumblr.  No, this is the place to not only dump but also explore.  Isn’t that odd?  That one place can do both for you.  You can shit where you eat and not get sick.  Isn’t it wonderful?

Oh, my cheeks are hot and my front teeth are numb and my nose itches.  This is me on beer, yo, and I still have to cook dinner.  

“Will you confess?!  no, no, no, no.  Will you say yes?!  no, no, no, no.”  Can I save your soul?  Maybe.  Wanna let me try? 

Say your prayers, rabbit!  I wish I could find a recording of “The Carrot Kid.”  I used to guzzle water and slam it down on an imaginary bar and taunt Yosemite Sam.  My dad said that if I kept sucking my thumb, I’d have bucked teeth like Bugs Bunny.  Know what worked?  Not Tabasco, not the awful bitter stuff my mom swabbed on my thumb.  Nope.  The promise of painting my fingernails.  And these days, I don’t give a flying fuck about painted fingernails or toenails for that matter.  The last time I painted my toenails, the fish bit my toes.  The last time I tried to suck my thumb, it felt all wrong.  

The rain has finally stopped, and the beer has stopped my three-day-long headache.  But the cat is meowing.  No, that isn’t code.  My cat is actually meowing.  He never shuts up.  I think he takes after me.  My former roommate always said if he was a person, he’d be a gay hairdresser, but I think now, he’d just be one of those people who weighs 600 pounds and can’t get out of bed.  Fat kitty!  It’s my fault.  Ever since his brother was squished in the street, I’m terrified of letting him outside.  And oh, isn’t that a metaphor for something?  

The dryer is beeping, yes my actual dryer is beeping.  More feverish nights.  The sheets had to be washed.  I dreamed of a blue sofa and Shadow pointing a gun at my heart and screaming that the next thing I said would either save my life or end it.  I said, “Oh shit,” so he shot me, of course.  Fucking Shadow either fucks me or kills me.  And what does it say that my other side, my inner self, my dark side, always does one of the two?  Answer that if you dare!  I know what the dream books say.  I am nothing if not a student.  But how do you release the repressed without exploding on everything around you?  Do you want to find my guts dangling from your ears and dripping from your hair?  But you will.  This is where I explode.  

BOOM!  The peak of nothing, I am it and it is me.  The best at nothing in particular.

I just realized my beer’s “freshest by” date was 12/13/10.  It tasted fine to me.

Sometimes, I just want to do like I did one weekend a few years ago, just drive to Memphis, cop a seat in a smoky bar, and listen to someone who’ll never make it sing his heart out to a room of drunks eating cheeseburgers and ribs.  Then, I’d stagger to the stage, take the mike from him, and sing something so beautiful it would break hearts.   

I think I’m going to go now.  I want to cry, and I can’t do that in front of other people.