In the quiet of night

When I lie in bed trying to fall asleep, love, I see blue and black shapes, circles and ovals. In the quiet of night there is always something swimming around in my mind. The mind is a very deep place after the sun goes down. I'm pretty sure there are fish down there. Tonight I'm going to bait a small hook tied to dental floss and snort it after you fall asleep. That way we'll have something fresh for dinner tomorrow.

You did hear

That I have all the pretentiousness and detestableness of a yuppie without any of the professional success and won't help others because I'm weak and selfish, decadent, and don't care. That I'm infatuated with myself and harmful to society and support human rights with my words but not my actions, and a dirty filthy drunk besides. That I am astonishingly negative, which to no surprise matches the results of my life, and that people don't like me.

There. There's it. There it is -- what I fear you will say about me.

Or do I really fear hearing this:

That I combine a wussy lack of masculinity with a lack of any positive feminine attributes, and that am short and fat and balding and no woman will ever find me attractive no matter how many pathetically funny things I say because I have no sex appeal, no confidence, no swagger, and no means to get it. That I may as well decorate my penis with Christmas ornaments because it has no functional use beyond the wanton self-pleasure that I should expect to continue indefinitely.

Or fear hearing this:

That I am of average intelligence, maybe in the 52nd percentile, and that, for instance, my good grades throughout high school show my natural inability to think for myself. That there is a new intellectual scale that measures based on independence of thought rather than mindless acceptance and obsequiousness, and that these new intellectuals are currently making jokes about me that I can't understand, and that I should probably go weep in a corner out of humiliation. That I, monkey, ever thought I was intelligent!

Or fear this:

That I'm the second man ever to become pregnant, according to a reputable doctor. But I'm pregnant with bees, possibly wasps.

Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: Cold

Solution: Fat

Complication: Cold fat
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My Pantry

My pantry is filled with canned peas and boxes of dry Jello. The peas are there because I cannot bear to be without them (they remind me of my adult guardian, the Jolly Green Giant). Also, they go well with boiled potatoes and Campbell's tomato soup. I am boring. The Jelloes are there because I like to collect the different colors and flavors (including, especially, Mystery) but I never want to eat them. Jello is made with hooves of horse, of course.

Of course, now that I'm running out of room, I'm thinking of making a dessert or side dish out of peas and Jello. Tastewise, I think orange Jello would go best with peas, but visually it would repulse the eater. Orange and green make -- I don't know. I have no color wheel. Back when I thought I was an artist, I memorized the color wheel, but I had to intentionally forget it in favor of the Wheel of Fortune. You only get one chance with Vanna White. Oh, Vanna, you haunted my childhood and taught me how to read. I owe you everything.

A Cloud of Thought

...it is getting to winter. The rain is cold and sometimes icy, and it's less wet when it's icy. This time of year there are no juicy cantaloupe in the grocery store. Cantaloupe should be plural like antelope, right? A herd of cantaloupe? Rolling across the savanna, easy prey for herbivores?

The point is that there is no juice to run down my chin as in summer, and no woman to tell me that I'm being a slob. My shirt remains unstained by melons. The juices of this season are hearty and meaty. They are gravy. They are fat. Fat keeps warmth and secrets like a good friend. Fat is a good friend.

I am no good at maintaining a train of thought. A cloud of thought I can do. Clouds make less noise when passing by your home. Only some clouds look like mechanical snakes. Clouds flatten less pennies and kill less pedestrians...

Who? What? Why? So What?

Who?

No one

What?

Wants to hear about your qualities. Tell us what's wrong with you.

Why?

We live in a culture that believes its ideal is attainable and even gives examples, like George Clooney and Jesus Christ.

So What?

So you think you're better than me? Do you? I have a desperate need to prove myself.
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Such nice plural

We form a community, me, you, and whoever else we know. It doesn't have to be just us, but it certainly can be. There are plenty of people out there who are friends with you or enemies with me. There are some who would cut me with a knife.

We are interesting people, and we provoke interesting reactions. We and us are such nice plural words to battle loneliness, the important battle, not between people and people, but between people and Nothing, which occupies ninety-nine percent of the universe. Well, ninety-nine and change.

Saturday night blogging

Some people have advised me against blogging on a Saturday night because they think it makes it seem like I've got nothing better to do, so others will think that I'm ugly and that I smell bad. Yet I ignore their advice because I don't care if you think that I'm ugly and that I smell bad. And my advisors, by and large, are ugly and smell bad. Yeah, that's a big "fuck you" to you guys. You know who you are. There are no mirrors in your house, and you can smell yourselves.

I may pretend not to, but I do care about my perceived visual appeal and scent, yet you can neither see nor smell me on this blog. There's no way for you to judge. If there were a way, I'd let you smell me first. I'm more confident in my scent than in my looks -- most days. I smell like one part old-timey shaving cream, one part talc, and with luck, no parts onion or cumin.

"Oh," you say, "but I find cumin oh so sexy."

"No you don't," I say. "Liar."
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