Like a pregnant woman.
Though I've eaten it before, and I think it's delicious, this morning it tasted like...meat goo.
Scrambling to the bathroom in disbelief, I felt sympathy for every vegetarian who has every lived.
We all make mistakes, I guess.
I puke all of the time.
It's not an eating disorder thing - if anything, I'm popular enough as it is.
No, I vomit all of the time because people with weak bodies have weak stomachs.
Also like a pregnant woman.
Or a newborn.
Help me figure this out:
The only thing a baby consumes, besides the wayward rattle bead, is milk.
Either the version that comes from mothers, or the version that comes from tins.
Whenever I see babies being fed, they tend to yak up whatever dairy they swallowed minutes before.
Which begs the question: Why must babies be so stupid?
I know that they digest most of it, but I do think it's weird that they have one staple and they have trouble keeping that down.
One day we'll evolve so that we all survive on pellets.
Babies. Old people.
The fortunate who are in between.
Everyone.
I know that purists will insist that it's going to be pills.
But some people are really awful at swallowing pills.
As a consequence, when we switch to the mighty all-in-one-meal capsule, these humans will die out.
Which would be fine with me, but I think the better solution, from a sanitary standpoint (dead bodies require maintenance) are pellets.
Then, we too shall be as happy as the petting zoo goat.
Who will tell you that pellets beat eating a can any day.
In true me fashion, I went on a hiatus from this blog in order to write a book.
Only to write nothing.
Aside from the occasional swear on the occasional bathroom stall.
...
You'd think that the sort of guy who would write vile language on a bathroom stall would also be the sort of guy unlikely to have a pen on him.
Then again, these delinquents are probably more organized than I am.
"Light vandalism today. Think I'll take...the blue Sharpie.
I can draw some dicks on stuff with the blue for sure."
Right!
That's what I was getting at, sort of.
Unorganized by nature, I claimed I'd start a book and then I didn't.
Now that I'm back, I've also started the book.
Which I had not intended to mention today (or ever).
But, my blog only thrives on honesty.
And honesty, in this case, is admitting that I've started a project I'll likely never finish.
It's about me.
Solely because I haven't had enough experiences to write about anything besides myself.
I guess, should it ever exist, it'll be toted as a memoir.
Or whatever you call a memoir that is produced by someone who can't remember anything.
Unmemoir?
Non-Memoir?
Can't Rememoir?
Oh, I like that one.
Anyway, I'll never upload any portions of it to this blog because, if I play my cards right, I have already done so.
I like reading Klosterman.
Only Klosterman and Eggers make me feel as though I could write a book
(one that would likely smack of Klosterman and Eggers).
Neither, technically, write memoirs.
One writes pop culture essays.
The other writes Heartbreaking Work(s) of Staggering Genius.
A celebrity cleans for spring.
They gather up all of their wardrobe that they're tired of.
Box it and tape it and label it (blue Sharpie):
FOR THE PEASANTS
Then they place these items on the side of the road just before you walk by.
Whose wardrobe would you like to discover and claim as your own?
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