Let's change tenses like a madman!

Discovered in my 'unpublished' folder.
I'm writing a story. Just so you know. I'm writing a story, and it's going to be the most glorious story anyone has ever read. People are going to read it and reevaluate their lives. I'm going to win awards and be flown to New York for a book signing. It's going to be a New York Times bestseller for 40 weeks straight. They're going to adapt my story into a movie. All my favorite actors are going to play the main characters, and we'll all be best friends and have tea together on rainy afternoons. When it becomes apparent that I've made it big, everyone will love me. All the people I hate will want to be my friend, and I'll say "No thank you." Because secretly all the mean characters in my story were somehow based on them. But I don't let that hold me back.

Everyone will want my autograph. People will ask me how I did it, and I'll say "Did what? Oh, you mean create the single most utterly astounding story the world has ever seen? I guess it just came to me.". My story is going to end wars and bring unity to nations. My story will make people laugh, cry, sweat, and cry some more (sweat from their eyes). Oprah will be so impressed she'll give me my own late night talk show on her new network. And I'll have more viewers than Letterman and Leno combined, Eventually Conan and I will unite our shows together and people will cry out to the heavens that this is the best thing that has ever happened. Then, eventually Conan and I will unite our lives together. His wife and kids will be my wife and kids, my thirty two cats will be his thirty two cats.

It will all be merry and well. Until the glorgatrons come in and temporarily misplace Oprah and her network subsequently crashes. Then Conan and I will be forced to return to individual lives and take our careers in different directions. It will be sad, yes. There will be a memorial parade through New York, people will be sobbing. For the next two years every time either Conan or I step into public, flowers will be immediately thrown at our faces. We'll just laugh and say "atta boy" to ourselves. It's an endless, endearing love the wold feels for us.

But nothing lasts forever and a mere six years after the parade (four years after the flowers ceased to be thrown), people won't notice my presence in public. I'll be a person, nothing more. A few failed novels later I'll begin working at a laundromat, befriending the elderly owners. They won't like me at first, but I'll be better than the other dumb employees and win 'em over. Eventually the woman will suffer a traumatic car accident and refuse to leave her house. The man will be forced to sell the laundromat and look after her full time. I'll buy the laundromat with what little money I have squirreled away from my brief encounter with fame.

The laundromat is mine and it's all I've ever really wanted. Take away the book, return Oprah, hide Conan. Whatever. It's all about the laundromat now.

A scant fourteen years will pass and my skin will be coated with detergent, my eyes glazed with powder soap, and my clothes will be as clean as ever. Nobody ever said you can't sleep in a washing machine. Just four quarters and you're lost in the spin cycle.

Mazel tov.

HEY GUESS WHAT YESTERDAY WAS?

Upon further inspection it was revealed that I can't read dates, nor can I keep dumb and fairly simple traditions alive.. ALAS, please suspend your belief and go with it... 


SCHNIKEYZ! I missed poetry day! A day I created! Dedicated solely to the production of uninspired, shitty poems. How could I be such a fool? The point is that I messed up, I'm sorry, but I will post some crappy poems soon. Not right now though. Why? Don't ask questions, it's unbecoming, sit in that corner and think about soda pop.
Here's just a sneak peek of what to expect from this year's POEM SPECRAPULAR. The second annual specrapular on this site, man am I excited.

Birds
Can they fly?
'Can you?' asked
the man with the turtle
picture
 on his shirt
Cabo '92, live it up
19 years
still a good buy.
'Yes'
'Oh' the turtle
and the man looked sullen
and they watched a boy
fly into the air

Note: Last year was not named POEM SPECRAPULAR, it didn't have a name, I like this one. It's moderately clever for something I literally made up while typing. Screw you, I'm keeping it.

Night of the run-ons?

Oy vey. I would rather not do anything productive right now. It's about time to go home  anyways. Except I'm already home, so there's no reason not to do something productive. But why produce something when you could simply fool yourself into thinking you've produced something? Anything, literally anything, is better than what I've been doing these past few weeks, which is pretty much reading dumb internet comments and telling myself I'm smarter than everyone else- when actually everyone else is doing something to somehow, however insignificant it may be, further the action in their lives and I'm sitting behind a chunky laptop that's missing four keys, not even participating.. just watching, like a fox watches the snow fall over the crisp winter soil when that fox is a lazy fuck.

That's me, a lazy fuck, except I'm not going to use that noun because nobody likes it when I use that noun when I type because it's not innocent and I think I'm supposed to be innocent, but everyone knows that innocence is overrated, and I'm not saying that to sound cool or tough, I'm saying that because I think it's the truth of the matter and actually when I think about it, I don't think anyone thinks I'm innocent anymore so why the fuck can't I say fuck? I like to write really long sentences that connect each little thought that passes through my head, only separated by commas, because in my head I'm speaking quickly and frantically, only resting to breath when a comma comes up. And then a period comes along. I wait. Calm down. It's just punctuation. I think. And I trudge along writing this mess because I really have to feel like I've done something today, I don't care that it's only on this small blog (that is secretly read by millions-- spoiler), it's still something. I've done something today, so now I can wait another three months before I come crawling back here looking for exactly what I found today: empty satisfaction.

The guarantee of a job halfway done. Because if I really cared I wouldn't sporadically write meaningless posts on this site, I would dedicate myself to crafting exquisite snippets of literature and profound insight that would enthrall my readers and draw in the masses, I would brag about my accomplishments and people who wear glasses because they're smart would stop me on the street just to have a conversation about muffins or the state of environmental decline the area is suffering through, and I would nod along and tip my hat goodbye at them when our conversation was finished, and return to my home to craft a new post and think about how lovely it is. BUT, my fair weasels, this is not that and that is not this and this that no. Now that we're on the same page I think it's fair to say that I hereby resign. Not from this, of course, but just in general. take it as you will, we're all just foxes.

Except for you, Hamilton.

Doofus doofus doofus

Hey there. Guess what?
I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. Ever.
It's quite concerning, people! Come on, internet, save me here. What the hell should I do for the rest of my life? or part of my life? Or the time between now and the fatal tractor accident? What?
I don't know, please tell me. I've already tried selling cheese, but there's not a big market for serious cheese enthusiasts in this crazy world we call home. I've attempted to start my own bakery, but I didn't get a rise out of it. I've tried to plant my own garden, but there was no thyme. I've looked into boating but I was uneasy with it.

So, now what?
Do I just sit here, typing frantically and desperately as if someone, anyone, is reading this and wants to see me succeed as a cheese saleswoman? Or do I bury that dream like a child buries their dead goldfish in a shallow grave near their house, where it will float up after the next storm, losing all dignity?

Maybe someday, when the hairs on my chin have faded into a dull gray, I will look back at this time of doubt in my life and laugh it off like a magician laughs off the loss of a dove. By that I mean, look back with great sorrow, because who on earth doesn't cry when a dove dies? Who? Not me, show me a dead dove and I will bawl my friggin' eyes out. Maybe someday I'll wonder why I didn't consider just winging it, much like a live dove does when in flight.
When you think about it, who I am in this moment, and who I will become aren't that different from doves.

But when you think about it more, you realize that they're actually nothing like doves and I'm an idiot.
So maybe I'll just be an idiot for a while longer and see where I land. I mean, if worse comes to worse, I can always be a dove.

Quit with the dove shit.

I'm a doofus.

Not quite.

"Have no fear, you're a deer."

And into the sea they paraded.