You know, for one day when I'm pressed for time or forgot my pen. I can just cut these out and paste in the form of a drawing. See, it's this inability to think in productive, goal-oriented ways that has led to my utter and abject failure as a human being. At least I hope that's the reason. I'd hate to think it's just that I'm a corrupt and malicious soul. An intellectual deficiency is much easier to swallow. Like, this washing machine has a worn fan belt, it's not inherently evil. If I can't ascribe my carcass-strewn path to bad wiring or having pushed too hard with a Q-tip, then I must accept the possibility that I'm a carrier of the evil gene, and one day I might find a severed head in my laundry basket and have to worry about whether there are any long periods of time I can't account for. Sigh. There are times when my brain feels like a chuck roast left in the sun, crawling with maggots. It's an awful feeling, but not quite awful enough that you're aware of hitting bottom with a thud, and having hit bottom, letting it all go with a sigh of relief, enveloped by that oceanic peace, and murmuring we are all Hokies.