Real Things

Sometimes I feel like this guy, all underground and ready to pull myself up into the unobstructed sunshine world of clean-air-possibility. Then prematurely exhausted from breaking the surface I rest my cheek on the clay gunk from which I am incompletely extracted. Exhaustion is a flaw, but resting reveals the event as an installation in the museum of eternal futility.

Before my irrational fear of flying there were gracious ladies pouring cocktails in the clouds. During my irrational fear of flying the ladies were replaced and the cocktails dried into crusty public blankets alongside innumerable snotty-sneezies. Now I specialize only in rational fears.

Who likes___? This guy! (the witless, wimpy jokester rides again)

I want paint under my fingernails and glue in my hair.