Where do we find meaning in life? We put a lot of stock in formed plastic. Plastic of various colors, although primarily beige. Large empty sitting halls are a favorite. In this part of the country we cannot get enough of truly putrid churches and fellowship halls. Brown and yellow inside. Windowless exteriors. We get together inside them and press up against one another for as long as we can bear it. Often hours at a time. Older ladies are allowed to hold down small children and force their make up on them. Real thick layers of oil paints and toilet water. The men stare at one another and dare each other to eat cigarettes. Everybody shakes hands too hard. Then we head to the basements or parking lots for shared washings with buckets of ice water. All of this makes us feel not so lost...

V bit through three tables last night. All at once. They were the kind of makeshift tables constructed out of old doors with their knobs removed. They had been holding up my domino display. As well as my glass bells and little wire angels. And three ongoing games of checkers.
V decided to demonstrate his multi-stomach digestive process to a Rolling Stone reporter and needed to devour something with a variety of fibers. He bit clean through the tables, demolished six chairs and fought a wasp's nest.
Then he threw himself down a flight of stairs and recited famous speeches and poems til dawn.
I busied myself with coupons for detergents and silent prayer.

God never made an ugly drum solo. Mitchell was an individual. His business card read “Couch Owner.” He told women little lies. He'd claim arm wrestling was behind him and that he'd lost the urge to stab pets. God decided strong winds should blow his car off a causeway near the alligator reserve. City workers found a half-finished voter registration form on his table and cases of loaf cakes filling the hallways of his apartment. There wasn't any traditional furniture. His living room had a canoe and two sealed garbage bags that were later found to contain stuffed animals, bent and shaped into low-slung chairs. The canoe was listed as his only next of kin. From all appearances, Mitchell had wasted his life. Yet buried in a silver notebook found in a pile of 2011...

Rosemarie drinks glasses of fire. She carries a shovel with her everywhere. Even state functions. She had a leather slipcase made for it. When sitting down across from bishops and commissioners, she lays the shovel out on the table before tearing up the paperwork and defaming her opponent's upbringing. She is lead agreement officer for a chain of high traffic meat tanning shops. She cares more about her Christmas lights than the mouth diseases people say they get from her company's products. Rosemarie knows they're all liars like the patrons of her previous job. She spent years inspecting people's feet at the public beach. (“How many toes? Five.” “Five?” “Yeah…” “I count 6.”) When a gang of astronomers rented the house...

The chairman of the county marching band council has just announced his resignation, effective immediately. Totally unexpected. No official reason given, but we’re all familiar with the rumors. Confetti cannons and duck costumes. Those will be the hashtags.
What this means, at least for now, is that until the formal election in January, I’m interim head of council…Careful what you wish for, right?
I don’t need the scrutiny right now. I’ve just burned out another credit card buying 4000lbs of play sand.
Headaches, headaches.