Occasionally, I will put on my hat, stand in front of the yellow wall with the ugly painting on it, and take pictures of myself—especially after drinking two 40s. I will then write a sentence about it on the internet using the Oxford comma.
I am of the opinion that I’m smokin’ hot in this picture—or just a little drunk. Either/or works for me. I took four pictures and this was the only one not fearsomely blurry.
When you wear a hat like this, you have to go get some feed for the hogs. It’s the rules. Do hogs even eat feed, tho? And what, exactly, is “feed”? Or do they just eat slop? Here I am in the middle of life and I know nothing about raising hogs. What if the apocalypse comes? I’ll be fucked.
I can grow peppers. I can grow the shit right out them. Remember how Dustin Hoffman was “an excellent driver” in Rain Man? I’m like that only with growing peppers.
Man cannot live on peppers alone, however.
Tonight’s supper was brown rice and lentils, all curried up. I’m looking forward to some cheese tomorrow, believe you me. I’ve been vegan all week and have earmarked Saturdays as Dairy Days. I’m not gonna go apeshit and eat block of cheese the size of a car battery or anything, but a couple grilled cheese and avocado sandwiches will really hit the spot.
I wish my cat was a vegan. True, it would kill her in no time, but I’m sick of coming home to feathers all over my yard. I have to walk carefully as I approach my door because little mouse heads dot my sidewalk (she only eats the bodies, leaving the tiny bloody heads as a warning…to me?). She is truly the most viscous cat I’ve ever owned, and I’ve owned a whole slew of cats. This one is like Cat the Ripper or something. I barely have to buy cat food anymore. Jesus.