Dear Diary — I ate a cookie today. Now I'll recover by having a nap. The end.
Death plucked my ear and said "Live, I am coming." -- Virgil (now dead)
Dad said he wanted to run his first marathon. But we convinced him that because he's dead they wouldn't even let him register. Plus — the smell. So now he's hanging out by the grade school. Likes to leer at the 8-year-olds. Girls, mostly. No matter how often we bury him he keeps coming back.
Dad's got a new business idea. Investment counseling for the dead. It stinks, but so does he then, being dead and all, himself. I told him he'd be better off with a steady job down at the DMV, where no one would notice the smell, or the fact that he never moves, but I don't know.
Even though Dad's still dead, he won't stay in the hole. I really hope I'm not like that when I get to be his age.
Compared to my grandfather I'm about six inches taller, and of course speak English much better and I'm not dead.
Found more tuna in my shoes this morning. I still suspect the cat. The little bastard is always smirking about something. Seldom confesses.
Found a screw on sidewalk. Shiny. Clean. "I've missed you," I think. "Welcome home, little buddy."
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Me? Tried exhaling last night. Still not working properly.
