Saturday, October 18, 2008
When I get giddy about mattresses, there's almost no topping me. You can't top me with butter, you can't top me with chocolate. You are receiving signals from reliable sources, you feel. It can't be a week since I moved from the bathroom to the kitchen, and I'm starting to worry about consumption. It is contagious? Is there a woman with good typing skills and a 40-inch skillet with no children who likes to take baths while usurping? I read some book in a place I call home. It was not what I expected, nor was there a fight for savings at the highest levels. Reality sets in at about the same time realty does. You can count on that to deliver you, or else we'll see you in court, looking all handsome and resplendent in your new vest. If there was ever any point to your investigation, let's see how it plays out among the skeptic few, the blistered crowds of chummy blokes. Oh, I suppose we could outsource everything to the dance master, but what would that solve, and how long would it take? Would you be willing to consider a return to more pertinent tasks? It looks as if she wasn't able to get things going, and that was that. But let me get this straight: no one even looks at you anymore. See? They don't like you. They have everything they need back at the base, and even they are reluctant to get involved, like it or not, with local matters. I am a fucking local matter. Eat that, and then move on to the horse radishes. That's a lot easier to take when you're built for bucking trends, when you're itching for a stump on which to stand. Take a stand, yeah, take one, and then see what fustigations result. Most likely you'll be asked to answer a few questions, no big deal, and then you'll be taken out and shown a good time, whether you feel like it or whether you'd rather stop for snacks along the highway. Don't matter. It steps into another dimension, your ball, once you decide to accept the acclaim of the public and/or the critics, but you know, whatever. Sucks to be that guy.