Thursday, January 5, 2012


It occurs to me that I have not been speaking enough in recent days about my dick. My dick is powerful. It loves oatmeal and has a cholesterol level of 7. My dick is ambidextrous. It can do backflips and can deadlift 115 pounds. It can tell the difference between every type of American southwest elm tree with 100% accuracy. It was once runner up on a Jeopardy! celebrity edition, and shook Alex Trebek's hand. It tastes like a gingerbread man, with a hint of cinnamon. My dick can drive a motorcycle. It once dug a hole through 3 feet of river ice so it could go fishing. It is vegetarian. My dick can type 87 words per minute. It is an expert in Bulgarian pop culture. In a fight with a hammerhead shark, my dick won. People claim that they have seen it breathe fire. It would be on Mount Rushmore, but there wasn't enough room. Everyone respects and is in awe of my dick, especially women and gays. It is the best dick that has ever lived.

On a less interesting note, it came to me as a flash, or shall I say, a flush, of blinding inspiration: Occupoo. The Occupoo Movement. The Big Movement. The BMers. Yeah. Git it? Cuz they pooped all over the place and didn't clean up after themselves. See?

It's been an odd week or so. I am surprised by my fragility. Once more, if not constantly. I'd like to think it's some sort of peptide imbalance, disrupting a more pacific thought process. Easy fix, that -- just identify the remedy ... a pill or something. Meds. But I think it's a problem of the soul. I've been fine, good, for, what, months? Consciously aware of it. Observing the fact of non-depression the way I have been known to do with depression itself. An objective disinterest, almost. Hm, I am depressed, there is the shape of the darkness. Or, Ah, is this happiness?

But now it's here, again. Not profound, but sullen. And despite improved material circumstances, with reasonable long-term hope, it gets bothersome, burdensome. I look for past causes, but the reality is that it's not the past but the present that matters. But that peptide thing, where some slight incident from the distant past pops up and burns as if from just a moment ago. It's a sort of madness, and I'm sick of it but in its clutches. Ho hum.

I wish there were a drug I could take. Maybe I'll consult my dick.


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