All of this writing has given that little voice inside my head (that sounds like my Bubby but who i call Tojo) an opportunity to be a bit of a roust-about, unmonitored as he is in my need to train my focus on more pressing matters. Today, he told me to tell a girl that I didnt like her shirt. I didn't, in fact, like her shirt but Tojo told her it made her look like a post-apocolyptic ostrich hyena cross-germ. Her response was surprisingly favorable.
Last night i dreamt of a beagle and the great pacific northwest. Dreams of beagles have foretold romance for me in the past but they carry with them an unmistakeable warning to stay away from broths or bouillon cubes. While in the pacific northwest water-wonderland, don calloway--a fat, boyhood friend who once told me that if you ever run out of things to say to a girl "just ask her what she likes to eat,"--was injured when his legs gave way beneath the weight of his toiling mass as he tried to run along a brook. But I had no time to be a gloomy gus about it with all that water to splash around in!
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