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.
Monday, January 16, 2006
ATTENTION:
Men over 40 that wear colognes that smell like fish, ass, grass and the cigarette smoke of dive bars?
STOP IT. Thank you.
Also, I earlier had put my half-eaten submarine sandwich in the office fridge. Later on, I went back to grab a Coke and noticed that the whole fridge now smelled like my sandwich. I wondered if anybody had taken something of theirs out of the fridge and then were grossed out by the now over-powering smell of my Sub.
I felt like I had just silently farted in a crowded elevator.
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