I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Saturday, February 08, 2003
My God!...
It smells like farts in here.
My girlfriend made deviled eggs this morning.
Why do eggs smell like farts anyway?
Why don't beans smell like farts?
Do you have any Spiderman comics lying around?
I'll trade you something for them.
Maybe I'll draw you a picture or write a horrible poem.
Really. Cross my heart.
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