fair xx.jpg

Thanks for your patience. I'm back from an epic struggle with Beelzebub, or at least one of his minions, perhaps a lackey, I don't know. I couldn't read its nametag. But I emerge victorious, trailing glory--oh wait, that's toilet paper stuck on my shoe. Whatever.

Yesterday Hollywood was monkeying with a cell phone and she asked me if I had 'call wasting', and I assured her I did and it was free.

Last night Forest Whitaker shook his rough sweaty jowls in my face and scared the poop out of me. I think I'm starting to get jowls too. I don't want to have jowls. I don't want to be the kind of person who has jowls. I'm starting to look like a Southern Senator during Reconstruction.

I have a magical belief that uttering petty simpering thoughts like the above in public will drain them, and the malignancy behind them, of their power, so that my mind will be free to embrace the oceanic peace of true awareness, and that I will be able to experience pain without the accompanying suffering---shit! Running away from suffering just adds to my suffering! I forgot! Life is like an exam that I forgot to study for, and that counts for 50% of my final grade.