No, not snorting horses, nor scantily clad firemen.
The closet is empty.
Everything is on the table.
Raw, unfinished, rough cut, dog eared, and vulnerable. Blinking in the cold winter light like moles who took a wrong turn at the rutabagas.
I need a giant piece of paper to make one of those brainstorming diagrams that look like an octopus holding baseballs.
A few years in a row I tried making myself a sort of bucket list for the coming year. I really didn't like those things that much. For a first born it looked WAY too much like a 'to do' list, and very little like a 'wouldn't this be fun' list.
This is something I would like to work on. . . that overly responsible, first born straight jacket situation. I'm trying to decide where on the octopus to put that worn out cliche' part of my life. Maybe said cephalopod would be kind enough to chew that up for me and digest it with octopus stomach acids... which I imagine are probably pretty potent.
[Note to self: Approach octopus about possible digestive gig.]
Right now Alexa is playing... Take the Long Way Home by Supertramp. Does this mean something?
(Yes. It means you are desperate for inspiration and are grasping at straws as old, moldy and chocolate brown as the 70's. It's embarrassing to be around you when you get like this.)
Feel free to go on an extended vacation. I'll pay your airfare. Hey! You could take the first born jacket with you, and throw it in a volcano somewhere then I could avoid the possibly awkward conversation with the octopus.
(Are you HEARING yourself right now? Seriously?)
Dude, you need to work on your humor skills. They are atrophied.
(I'm not dealing with your birth order issues this time. You are going to have to take them up with him. And just between you and me, this guy doesn't look like he has much in the way of a sense of humor either...)
Oh dear.
This brainstorming thing is going to be harder than I thought.
Oh dear.
This brainstorming thing is going to be harder than I thought.