That teary eyed burning that lingers after a nap, reminding you that you’ve wasted part of the day and your body has rebelled against you. The rest of the night is a fog of inexplicable exhaustion, but falling back asleep seems impossible. Why does my mind work this way? Why do I make the leap from nap-time to pilling fabrics to the gritty spread of New England’s weather combatant abundantly sprinkled on every outdoor surface that has now made its way into my room? Ravenous at one moment, appetite free another. My cat-meat stew contains no poisons? Colbert says ridiculous shit, but at least the Chinese are helping to curb the cat population; cat-meat stew may be the remedy for the looming cat apocalypse.
Speaking of apocalypses, this new show “Doomsday Preppers” looks amazing and I absolutely want to partake in such preemptive measures. But that’s how I work; I love making kits, stocking pantry’s, having every item conceivably needed on hand, organized meticulously with labels and boxes within boxes within bags within boxes on shelves in cabinets in a designated space. Everything must be squared and level, everything must be symmetrical, or at least purposefully placed in preparation. Locks and keys and plans and yet…and yet my room looks like shit, with piles of shit stacked upon piles of shit, buried underneath other piles of shit. But it’s not shit, it’s my life, my clothes, my bags, my papers and books.
Progressive people plan preemptively provided predicaments prove perilous.
Someone compared the Holocaust to the estate tax.
