Monday, July 02, 2007
...but you no can eat that!
The green gel pen I used to take notes from an article I read this afternoon thrice ejaculated on my inner arm below the wrist. The contrast between the three splotches and the tone of my flesh moves me to seize the pen and colour my entire forearm green, if only to live with a green arm for a few hours. The thought of so much ink wasted, however, restrains the urge.
I wish I could write well. Perhaps if I drop out of school and quit my job, I shall have time to read everything I want to read and to write about everything that occurs to me as it occurs to me. As the situation now stands, I forget most of any ingenious, planet-altering notion before I've even thought it.
Usually, when I find any time to think, I realize I am sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, wondering how I am going to die and whether that might have any profound impact on the life of an ant or my friends or old people who play bingo. Last month I avoided death by spider attack, but nothing can convince me I might successfully navigate through the rest of my life without being attacked by an arachnid again. The little beasts lurk everywhere. They probably come out at night from between the books on my shelves, to leer with eight beady eyes at me as I slumber.
I would be just the sort of person to die from spider attack.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 2:59 PM]