Just when I feel I’ve got a handle on things, the rules change. But that’s Ok. I’ll just make my own layer cake. I don’t follow recipes well anyway.
I improvise. I don’t obey.
I hate being told what to do.
If you don’t know what to do, read a book! Google isn’t the only source! Do some research. Ask questions. Be curious! Educated doesn’t mean you know everything. It means you know how to analyze data and find answers.
Like with recipes. I get the gist of a dish, and the main ingredients, and then add or subtract salamanders. Sometimes the result is sticky, sometimes a tornado, but never the same tickle twice.
Minah birds bitch fight outside my window. I’d love to know what gets them so worked up. I mean, what’s so important? He stole my branch! That was my cockroach! I guess it’s the same with humans. Squabbling for territory and resources, and who gets to fuck whom. Are there spinster minah birds? Babies that won’t leave the nest? So, minah bird dads build a downstairs nest for the pothead offspring who sit around playing video games plotting how to supplant their parents?
Too many ingredients in this one. A food combining nightmare, not worth the indigestion.
That’s the best way to learn though. You gotta take chances, make mistakes, and get your hands dirty. Nobody ever won a Pulitzer by writing the same old thing.
The birds are quiet. Residue of rice milk in the blue cereal bowl dries up. Granola is too sweet. Should be outlawed. Or fed to minah birds who don’t leave the nest. Little fuckers. The bag of velvet seeds that need drilling await a creative urge. My drinking buddies sprawl in still, post-debauch poses. Five males and 2 blond females make a bachelor party on my writing desk. Tick tick tick. Here’s where I’m consistent. When I slow down, I hear the clock.
The birds kick it up again. Older sister minah bird, tired of dirty socks on the dining table, pecks her brother in the neck.
I’m sure there’s a moral here. There’s always a moral. Or a grammar lesson. Taking up spiders in the mind like cherries in a teapot. Frightening in their complacency. Oh God, it gets weird here, in the tackle box.
Maybe I’m not as good a cook as I thought.
I improvise. I don’t obey.
I hate being told what to do.
If you don’t know what to do, read a book! Google isn’t the only source! Do some research. Ask questions. Be curious! Educated doesn’t mean you know everything. It means you know how to analyze data and find answers.
Like with recipes. I get the gist of a dish, and the main ingredients, and then add or subtract salamanders. Sometimes the result is sticky, sometimes a tornado, but never the same tickle twice.
Minah birds bitch fight outside my window. I’d love to know what gets them so worked up. I mean, what’s so important? He stole my branch! That was my cockroach! I guess it’s the same with humans. Squabbling for territory and resources, and who gets to fuck whom. Are there spinster minah birds? Babies that won’t leave the nest? So, minah bird dads build a downstairs nest for the pothead offspring who sit around playing video games plotting how to supplant their parents?
Too many ingredients in this one. A food combining nightmare, not worth the indigestion.
That’s the best way to learn though. You gotta take chances, make mistakes, and get your hands dirty. Nobody ever won a Pulitzer by writing the same old thing.
The birds are quiet. Residue of rice milk in the blue cereal bowl dries up. Granola is too sweet. Should be outlawed. Or fed to minah birds who don’t leave the nest. Little fuckers. The bag of velvet seeds that need drilling await a creative urge. My drinking buddies sprawl in still, post-debauch poses. Five males and 2 blond females make a bachelor party on my writing desk. Tick tick tick. Here’s where I’m consistent. When I slow down, I hear the clock.
The birds kick it up again. Older sister minah bird, tired of dirty socks on the dining table, pecks her brother in the neck.
I’m sure there’s a moral here. There’s always a moral. Or a grammar lesson. Taking up spiders in the mind like cherries in a teapot. Frightening in their complacency. Oh God, it gets weird here, in the tackle box.
Maybe I’m not as good a cook as I thought.
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