I’m redesigning my website, the old things can be found here.

This morning I groggily loaded up the home page I still have for some reason and saw this.

 

 

I mean, the JPEG loaded slowly, she’s eating a mint, but Jesus. For a second there.

 

Jesus.

I just turned twenty-six, which means I’ve officially entered my late twenties. It’s time to give up on my dreams. Clinging to a bunch of goals I have no intention of working toward would just drag me down, and I need to free up as much time as possible to dedicate to what will be a defining characteristic of my late-twenties life: telling people I’m a sniper.

 

It’s a lie, but it’ll ward off any further questions from people making casual conversation about my profession. I’m obviously not fit enough to be a military or law enforcement sniper, so inquiring as to how and why I snipe things in my free time could prove dangerous. The subject would quickly change, as though it were clipped in a biologically vital area by a long range weapon, if you know what I mean. Wink.

 

The focus of chit chat would be free to shift to something I’d feel less overwhelming shame about. Current events, pop culture, local eateries and where I got my flak jacket. I could move about social events with ease, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to tell people I work in a retirement home sandwich shop until I reach satisfaction with a hazily defined creative endeavor. Truly, being free of the burden of ambition and laziness is the greatest gift of all.

Come on, IMDB, step up your game.

My dreams tend to be non-events. I can go months without recalling a single one, and when I do get a grasp on what my mind has been up to overnight, it’s often murky at best. It’s only every once in a while that I have a vivid dream that sticks with me, sights, sounds and all. Those dreams usually suck.

 

I’ve had dreams where I’d be waiting in line for this great big new roller coaster, even though I hate roller coasters. Everyone around me would be talking the thing up, like it’s the greatest roll ever to coast, and I’d actually get sort of excited about the thing. Then after I got on, it would go up a hill and come back down, and I’d be ordered to get off. “Go fuck yourself,” says my subconscious.

 

The other night I had a dream where I was frantically working on a project. I was in this dark cabin and I was poring over something I had drawn, carefully making little adjustments here and there. Whatever it was, the world had to see this, and it had to be perfect, otherwise it felt like my life was a waste. My obliquely assigned dream emotion was very intense, even though I’d yet to grasp what it was I was feverishly sweating to complete.

 

It turned out to be a shitty children’s book called “The Big Red Truck.” I’d gotten all up in a dream huff over plagiarized children’s literature. My mind couldn’t even come up with a placeholder for a good project, just derivative pap. Two seconds on Google brings up a million of the exact same thing. Very disheartening indeed.

 

 

The thing is, I never do anything. I think about getting all sorts of projects off the ground incessantly, but what comes out mostly is “Hey, I’m going to get stuff done soon,” and “Oh boy, I’ve really got to get going,” and that includes this entry. If my mental innards have taught me anything it’s that I absolutely cannot function creatively on auto-pilot. I need to take the stick, push some buttons and do a loop or two. Otherwise I really should go fuck myself.

Man, I’ll tell you one thing. If I were president, nobody would be talking about this oil spill nonsense. And of healthcare – not a peep. Under my watch, even the issues that have been debated endlessly, term after term, through all manner of leadership would cease to concern. In fact, if I were president, they would become downright trivial. Because left wing or right, liberal or conservative, absolutely everyone would be outraged that someone so unqualified became leader of the free world.

The whites of Zagat’s eyes beamed as he charged Margherita ‘s bedroom door. He passed through it with a thunderous crash.

 

“Zagat!” she cried from within, “You know you shouldn’t be here!”

 

“No is for words time!” he screamed, using all the English he knew.

 

He grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. She couldn’t fight him off, he was too powerful. Zagat built houses for a living – houses like this one. It was how they met.

 

“Zagat, we mustn’t!” she pleaded. But it was too late. He jumped on top of her and ran his hands down her heaving bodice. His pace slowed as his fingers carefully removed the bodice’s fastening lace from its many eyelets. Margherita gazed up at him, quickly overtaken by his bold, manly maneuvers. With almost surgical precision he removed her bodice and held it up to the sunlight, Margherita ‘s bare chest exposed.

 

With unprecedented speed Zagat ran back out the door, bodice in hand, never to be seen again.

At all times I’m propped up like a scarecrow on sticks.

The other day I was doing the thing in movies where, in a montage of how sad someone’s life is, a character has to walk in the rain and a car splashes them with filthy water. As a personal touch, I combined this exact instant with my umbrella getting caught on a tree branch above me and smacking myself in the face.