So the power is off today, and before too long we may even forget what electricity even tasted like.
So the power is off today, and my captive firefly breeding program is finally paying off.
So the power is off today, and wouldn't you know it — I forgot to blow dry my hair again first. Luckily, I have just the one, and I usually keep it in the dresser drawer anyway.
So the power is on today, and I need to figure out a way to make it last. Maybe check with Mom and see if she will loan me some of her canning jars. Not quite the same as lightning in a bottle, but definitely better than shit in a bag. (Despite what you may have heard, that really isn't good for much of anything.)
So the power is on today, but the ice cream machine is broken, so I guess my headache will be going away on its own.
So the power is on today. If I had an electric furnace I could make steel, though that might cut into my nap time.
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Me? I'm just like that.
Because my mind won't accept either hairy underpants or fuzzy thinking.
Because moaning while trapped inside a group of depressed people is nothing like meaningful. And then they expect you to throw money at them for the privilege.
Because I have lots better imaginary friends, many of them wantonly naked at times.
Because OK — so the guy who got nailed to a half-finished carpentry project didn't even exist. It was all imaginary performance art, thought up a couple of hundred years later by a bunch of Greeks as a comedy skit. (They didn't have TV in those days, eh?)
Because I don't have rabies. And you're not going to tell me that people who foam at the mouth and go around barking and being fully disruptive and asking for money and expecting converts aren't rabid? Or vampires? Or used car dealers? Say no more. Please. Say no more.
Because I found lots more better ways to waste my time. Some of them even tickle.
Because I don't want to spend my life being bored and miserable just so I can go to hell anyway. When I'm already there. Even without making it worse by being a Christian.
Because whatever you think of me, I'm not that stupid. Not that stupid. I do stupid on my own, my own way, without dogma. My kind of stupid.
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Me: Who?
Captain Monkey Turds is no longer invited to parties, because "reasons". And he never was that much fun anyway. Because even more reasons.
Captain Mumbles won't tell us the true secret of his actual success, if any, or we can't actually understand him, and it's making us darn cranky. We hope to have some solid news real soon now, or else. Come by in about a week and we'll let you know what we know, if anything.
Captain Never Say Oompah is in the wrong business, I certainly hope. It's so quiet around here since his oompah ban that now we're actually well above my creepy limit. A few firecrackers could liven things up, but that's so ordinary. I may try it though, just to see how many oompahs start to come out from under the sofa.
Captain One-Two, Shuffle My Shoes is still living at home, teaching tango to his Mom's cat, and expecting to make it big any day now, something that he's been announcing for forty-seven years next Thursday, and, of course, we can hardly wait for the grand opening of his dance studio and shoe repair shop, both of which are seriously needed in these parts.
Captain Pants wore out his welcome. He could tell when people began pointing and laughing, which was nothing unusual, but then there was also that new telltale draft.
Captain Priscilla Sparkly-Butt is still doing her thing down on the street corner, as you might have expected from someone with a talent such as hers.
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Me? Comfortably in charge, and if not me, then someone, now, or certainly very soon.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a personage you may think you know, or one you have known, but who you have not, surely, for I would remember since such are few in my life, and yet I feel satisfied and entirely fulfilled whether I am here or there, or nowhere, and am one of a select number who can make such statements, who can express such thoughts, and also mean them entirely.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and I am no longer quite so alone, for I have recently acquired a companion, a pet, if you will, whose name is still unknown to me, as I do not, and have not ever, palavered in Reptile, but who I for now shall be addressing as "Zard", which is, to me, sufficiently gender neutral, as if that mattered, though it may. Life as we know it affords all too few opportunities to exhibit respect and proper restraint, which I hope I am displaying at this moment, so Zard it is, and Zard and I are currently sharing travels until or unless one of us may choose to scamper off and hide under a rock. So be it.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, slowly pacing forth and back, holding a bit of twig in my hand, wondering why. Wondering why, something I sometimes do. And time passes. As it does.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, somewhat thirsty and dry, perched on my stone seat, waiting for rain, watching the wide, dusty basin below me for any sign of movement, of which there is none, save an occasional puff of dust off too far in the far distance. Such is my day. Every day. Every day long.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, stalled at the moment, redooting my tootle-flute, having a pause in what I may claim as my nightly diversion, namely wootling and tootling, flute-wise, alone and in the dark of night, solitary yet satisfied and self-sufficient wherever I might have camped, under the stars, the many stars.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, traveling these days horseless, solely on foot, accompanied only by dust, and my single companion hamster, Halliburton. We get along just fine. He sleeps by day and I by night, comfortable in the knowledge that should any danger approach, he would do his best to alert and then defend me, tiny though he is, and I am forever grateful to know, let alone share my time here with such a great soul and true companion.
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Me? Learning lonesome tunes on my new nose flute.
Efelunts don't really exist. Not the way I do, and I'm the real real. At least until sundown.
Even though I'm waiting to die, and am ready, I still can't find the exact shade of death that I need.
Everybody's favorite most memorable blue anemone, Melody. Melody Blue. Chilling for you. Sweetness herself.
Everyone is hard at work except me. I'm sitting here again, enjoying not being hard at work again. For ever. For ever more, again. (Woot!)
First things second. Today only. Also, half price for anything marked up 100% yesterday. Get it while you can.
Fish farts — recurring mystery or hypothetical excursion into mystical extrapolation? We may never know, but someone does, somewhere.
Fish farts could power the world if we only opened our minds and held our noses.
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Me? Constantly working on imaginating imaginative images. Or hallucinating, which I've been doing long before you-know-what.
Did donuts ever come without holes? Are the holes an improvement in some way? I wonder what the official specs might be, something, to my knowledge, that has never been published.
Do organic carrots have better organisms?
Do you ever have problems with squirrels getting into your toaster? Me neither, I think. But maybe, some day, so I'm always ready. For The Day. (You know — if ever.)
Do you have a spider collection too? Only the one? Do your little buddies have name tags? Costumes? Do you all watch bug movies together? Am I alone here?
Does anyone else ever chase dust bunnies down the street? Is there a professional division? I'd really like a team to join. Have already written a fight song.
I don't know about you, but my nuts hurt. Will have to try buying them at the other place.
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Me? Forgot my cup again.
Carrots are in season right now, but things are sure to quiet down once they have laid all their eggs.
Carrots on a stick — that's what they're serving today. As many carrots as you want. They have lots and lots of carrots but only the one stick. Makes for quite the long line. Am glad I got here early. Less foreign saliva on ye olde stick. (Been in use for around a decade, I hear.) Other than that, all is fine.
Certified drywall mechanic. Repairs made while you wait.
Clever things, these zippers. No matter what I try, mine always gets in a stray bite or two. At least I have some calluses now.
Couldn't find my chicken today. Couldn't find any chicken anywhere. Something is up. Something.
Crunchy bits, my favorite. I'd like more, please, and bring me a cake too.
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Me? Am a shusher from way back.
Recently nominated for something by someone, somewhere.
