Poshay

That's no good. That's no good at all. It looks so blank, we can't have that.

No.

Yes.

Here is a list of the things I did last Friday:

roller skating
roller baiting
roller hating
roller waiting
roller plaiting
roller dating
roller crating
roller creating
ice cream social

Ice cream is so good. I remember one time, walking around the wrong side of the barnhouse, I was assaulted by a thief. And there was Ice cream, riding on a white horse, pointing his noble lance upward as he galloped forward. Not only did he manage to catch the thief, but he also forgave him. First he forgave him for being a thief. Then he forgave him again for being a bad thief, since he hadn't assaulted me or stolen anything. Then he forgave him for being slapped upside the head by Ice cream for no reason. And that takes character, on all sides.

Sometimes, I wonder if I can ever be that good. If I want to be good like Ice cream, I will have to make my own Code of Honor, and Follow It, like a Magical Cat. It will take a lot of Marshmallow Fluff.

You aren't invited.

From the Heart of the Smart

"I must be insane," I told myself, staring into the bitterly brick wall. It was that kind of an evening. I had just gotten drunk off a moistened turtle. I turned the corner looking for a towel. But what I found was myself, instead.

"I must be insane," I told myself, and then I ran faster than a very, slow, cat up the walls and into the sky. The sun was getting hotter and whiter. Then I woke up in a white room, covered in pads.

"I must be insane," I told myself, since clearly I was hallucinating. There was no way I was in a mental institution.

That was tough. Because I knew I was in space, really, and every sane person around told me so. "You must be in space," the one-eyed troll Mitch told me, over poker. "Otherwise, why would these cards be so sparkly?"

And he was right, and I knew that, but it was tough. Once you're really crazy and you get it in your head that you're actually in a mental institution, instead of floating among the cosmos, it's pretty difficult to go back to the day-to-day hassle of encountering aliens and coasting the borders of burning nebulae. I kept passing stars and asking, "Is it time for my medication?"

"No," they harrumphed, "we're stars, not nurses. You're not in an institution. You're just in boring old space, and you need to come back to your family of transcendental astral gods."

"My family isn't a bunch of transcendental astral gods," I would counter. "They're middle-class suburbanites who are worried that I've been institutionalized. They wonder how I'm going to get through school. My dad is trying not to be disappointed in me."

It wasn't until I encountered a cluster of white-hot space squirrels that I ended my insanity. It was really simple, actually. They just asked me what I was committed for. I muttered that I was late for dinner. But then they offered me cherry ice cream and... well, I was intrigued.

So now I'm back in the cosmic throne, taking lollipops from elves and giving them to elfephants (only the good kind). And I'm glad, too. But I do miss being able to eat normal ice cream.

So that was how I spent my weekend. And now it's Monday, and I'm back, and this blog is perilously blank. It was a long Sunday, perilously blank. I rolled up to the bank.

Cash money.

A poem, for you:

James the barber slipped and fell
And landed on a mouse,
And when he got up, he could tell
That he was being sued for physical and mental anguish.
One thousand dollars for the plaintiff,
And a block of cherry cheese.

Symphony

Love is stretchy,
Like a cat,
And yet, it's stretchier than that.

My heart is falling
At my feet,
And now it's too dirty to eat.

A single dove
Has taken flight
Because he's late for bingo night.

When I grow up,
I want to be
A bear
Or something,
I don't care.

When I was seventeen

Recently, I was remembering. I can't be asked to remember how recently, or to remember what I was remembering. But I was remembering a lot. All sorts of stuff. You've got to believe me.

Mainly, it was that time I was hanging out with Rembrandt. It was pretty chill. I was all, "Hey Rembrandt, what up?" And then he got all up in my grill.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Maybe it was. Maybe it is tomorrow. It's difficult to tell, sometimes. Rembrandt is flaky like that.

Believe in yourself. And believe in me, too, if you can be bothered. But, most importantly, you have to believe in Rembrandt. He has made a lot of paintings. They are in museums. Also, he was in my grill. That is pretty solid evidence for existing, I think.

Gromick

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Endings

Everything must come to an end. Beethoven. Cars. Footballs. Tennis matches. Bungee chords. Limozeens. Words ending in "e." Words ending in "s." Violence. Suffering. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is speaking to me. It tells me, "Where must you go now?" I ask it, "To the restroom." It shrugs, but I know that it is whispering, listening. "Let me in," it wants to say, but it can't, for it is a blog.

That is why I am marking this post as the end of the end of this blog. This blog is no longer ending, because the end has ended. In fact, it never really began. So ends the end, before the end begins, at the beginning of the beginning, which is the middle of something else. In fact, I declare that the end of the beginning of the beginning of the beginning comes tomorrow. That will throw them for a loop.

Everything must come to a bend. Race cars. Runway models. Roller coasters. Words ending in "s." Arrows. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is not wearing any underwear. It asks me, "I am rather embarrassed." But I do not know why. Blogs are not supposed to have these kinds of awkward emotions. In fact, they don't.

Perhaps your blog is speaking to you, now. Not your real blog, but your inner blog, is trying to scruff its way out. Don't let it. It's a nuisance. Anyway, do you really believe that there is a blog living inside you? If so, I would like to know why. Because I find that notion to be extremely confusing.

My blog is following me around like a lost child. It picks up a piece of lint and I smack its hand. "Don't eat that," I say. "It's not clean."

"Yes it is," replies my blog.

Then I stop. How did my blog become anthropomorphized?

It didn't. I'm lying. Obviously. Do you really believe that blogs follow people around and pick up lint? Because I think that would be very cool, but it's highly unlikely.

That will not stop someone from patenting it.

I know you don't believe. But I believe, and in many things. I believe, for instance, in lions. I used to be one, a long time ago, before my haircut. But I decided that hair is unsuitable for blogging. You see, everything must come to an end. Even lions.

Sugarmint

Love is finding a cup in your cabinet that hasn't been washed yet.