Lament of the used-car-salesman
The Saturday night parties are just getting started
I ‘m making banana bread and trying convince my dog that one can learn how to control their dreams. He doesn’t believe me.
The wife is out of town… I should be driving an overpriced import and doing cocaine with ridiculous looking women at some terrible club. Making jokes about postmodern sofas. I should be wearing cuff-links made out of Woodrow Wilson’s teeth and jumping over the Grand Canyon while enjoying 50% percent fewer calories. I should be roaring through deep black space, the unblinking eye of god, being eternally reborn.
But here I am wrestling on the kitchen floor with a wolf, waiting patiently for snacks.
