I don’t know what to tell you guys today.  There’s plenty of shit to talk about.  I could make up a story about a woman with cat hair stuck in her throat.  I could tell you that she tried to get it out with the narrow end of a broom, or a vacuum cleaner, or the plastic leg of a black barbie doll.  It doesn’t have to be a story.  I could tell you about a girlfriend with red hair.  I could tell you about a job that makes money but no sense. I could tell you about the detriments of insufficient eye contact.  Or I could subliminally tell you to go fuck yourself.

    We’re not all in the same boat.  That’s a good thing.  Sometimes I’ve got wet socks and a plastic spork to bail with.  Sometimes I lose the oars.  Sometimes I get out and float on my back in shark infested waters.  I think it’s good that we’re all in different boats.  Occasionally the tide, or the wind, or our putt-putt motors face us in the same direction, but I don’t think that’s important either.  This analogy has eaten itself like a two headed prostitute snake.  I think I’m saying, enjoy your boat and don’t be afraid to paddle with your hands.

    Sometimes I feel like I’m playing too much defense.  Reacting too much.  I’m going to focus on improving my offense.  At least that’s what I’m going to write down in this little one footed rant.  I’ll have to prove it to myself the same as I’ll have to prove it to you.

    Does this feel like a diary entry?  Sometimes it feels like a diary entry on my end.  That’s stupid.  Should I be tucked away, under a blanket, after bedtime, with a flashlight?  Would that make it more sincere?  I’m not in under a blanket.  I’m next to a garbage can.  A garbage can that I’d be willing to bet contains at least a cubic meter of unpasteurized human shit.  There’s also a dog wandering around.  He’s got an extra leg.  I’ve seen three legged dogs before.  This is the first five legged dog I’ve ever encountered.  I don’t know if it’s good to have an extra leg.  He’s prepared for a car accident, I guess.

    I’m in a good mood.  Surprisingly good, considering the nasal beating I’m taking from this dumpster.  I’ve noticed that even when my mood is solid, I’ve got strong appetite for destruction.  The aim of that destruction is all over the map.  Self-destruction, habit destruction, sometimes I’ll stomp a ketchup packet, or salt a snail for no good reason other than general stickiness.  I made a bowl in a pottery class and I’ve been dying to unmake it with a cinderblock.

    *Plot twist — the five legged dog just pissed — he’s not a he.  Or maybe that extra leg doesn’t allow for the fire hydrant style pee.  I don’t know.  I’m not a dog urinalysisexpert.

    Luckily for my ceramics, and general well being, creating and destruction fill the same divot in my head.  Some how.  But the appetite is still there.  If you could listen to what my brain tells me… I think you’d be amused.  Entertained at the least.  Horrified, maybe.  Don’t act like you don’t have intrusive thoughts.  You never thought about kicking an old person in the stomach when they’re walking opposite of you on the sidewalk?  You’re full of lies.  I wouldn’t do it.  But I’ll entertain the thought.  That seems like a safe, humanitarian compromise.

    The rundown of this pseudo diary entry —  More offense less defense.  Creation and destruction and equal opportunity.  Never pet five legged dogs.  Oh, and I heard this today:  If you walk up to a stranger at a bus station and try to sell them a ten dollar bill for one dollar, they won’t buy it.  I don’t know if it’s true.  There was a lesson about earning trust before selling shit in there.  I don’t know if it works.  One of you dummies should try it.  Let me know if it works.  I’ll refund the ten bucks if they buy it.

    Fuckyou bye.  Time to go plot some offensive maneuvers.  Extra Foot is over there chewing on his extra foot — it’s gross.