Really expensive fish?:
Well, for me, fish are high maintenance pets. I have the same luck with fish as I do with plants, none. All life ceases before me.
They say, if you’re mentally ill; a condition of which I have been accused, when you think you are recovering get a plant. If it survives six months, get a pet and if it survives a year your odds are pretty good of living a reasonably sane life. Well, if that is the case you should lock me up and throw away the key, because I follow the rules to the letter and it doesn’t matter, I may as well be the “Angel of Death”.
I have the deepest respect for fish owners. I do not think there are many things more beautiful, or awe-inspiring than a well maintained fish tank.
Because I do love all animals, I’ve stopped buying fish. I don’t want anymore to needlessly die. After all, I have a dog and he is fine so maybe dogs are my niche.
I do know this, when I die I hope God isn’t a fish.
The “naked truth:”
You see here is the problem, I’m a nudist. Well not a total nudist, just boxers and no shirt after work. I love lounging in the awesome uselessness of my pudding body. After all, I worked hard to earn it. Pizza, and doughnuts, and ribs. Yep, a lot of food and few clothes; that’s my dream.
Never had much problem achieving my goal either, that is until “she” came along. That’s right. My son’s girlfriend. She’s omnipresent. Eats all my good food and the most terrible thing is, I have to retain my clothing.It wouldn’t be so bad if it were once a week or so but it’s every single day. See, my son doesn’t have much money so to fuel this romance he needs the old homestead and dad can just “suck it up”.
I’ve tried to think of effective retaliations. Not replacing toilet paper for example. Trouble is, I’m the one who can’t hold out. I’ve tried slurping my food, laughing too loud, an untold number of assorted and disgusting physical sounds, even watching only sports. Nothing works. She is like a tattoo. Meanwhile I suffer.
What do you think I should do? If you think of a good idea, you can contact me at a hotel. Contact my wife for the phone number. She doesn’t mind the girl. You see, as is my luck, my wife prefers keeping her clothes on.
Yeah, I’m a writer:
I sit at my computer and type. I have a need. I’m alone in this sack of flesh looking out through these optic holes only to see frustration. I want to know, really know people. I want to impact, really impact people. I want to share, really share, with people. I know that our planet is rich with the billions of individual stories which make up our World. I want to tap into that collective experience of such an awesome, pulsating, body of knowledge. I am so hungry to identify who we really are that I am in agony.
But, people are conditioned not to be transparent. Fear, mistrust, experiential hurt, scars, ignorance, color, language, culture, geography, religion, and history are but a few borders that sadly, steal humanity’s opportunity to grow.
I don’t know what to do. I sit at my computer and keep trying to say things in a way that will strike chords in others. If I ever do, I doubt it will be conscious. It probably is by accident.
I figure the more I write, the better my chances at hitting a nerve.