Ice cream and skin heads
One of the cats just sat patiently at my feet while I ate a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. When I finished I let her lick the bowl. She didnít like it too much. I have blue specks of paint on the soles of my feet from painting the walls of the third floor bedroom with a second coat tonight. The paint dripped from the roller on the drop cloth and I walked on it and now my feet look like they suffer from some bizarre color impaired measles.
I have managed to foster the ability to stare at something and think of nothing for a very long time. Perhaps this is due to my current state of unemployment. If I wore saffron colored robes and carried my own bowl I could use this new power to collect money in my bowl by thinking of nothing while people wandered by. You donít see that too much in the states. I am approaching Zen or apathy, it is still too far off to tell, but the fact that I donít really care should say something.
I would take the Skinheads bowling if I had the opportunity and a van in which to transport the lot. It would be fun watching them take out their aggressions on the pins, discussing the numerous reasons why the pins are painted white and struggling with the vaguely uncomfortable feelings of attachment that they will exhibit toward the smooth rounded surface of the bowling balls that mirror their own bare crowns.
There is no accounting for taste or junk mail. If I paid more heed to my email spam I would have already been in for that breast augmentation, I would walk around with my chemically-induced erection while talking to my bank about the $20 million dollar wire transfer that I am expecting from my Nigerian friends and long-lost relations, I would have a huge number of mortgages at the very best rates so that I could afford to watch the latest posting of every internet cam teenager having a pillow fight.
Speak to me in my native tongue