If the multiverse theory is true I wonder in how many universes I might be flying around on a jetpack, solving crimes.
The thing I don’t like about guns is that for them to be useful, you have to use bullets. You have to put in the extra effort to load the gun, which uses up valuable seconds and broadcasts your intentions in a crisis situation. This is why when confronted by danger, I just immediately hurl myself head-first through the air towards my assailant, thereby becoming both the gun and the bullet in one deadly package.
Before I die, I’ve decided I’m putting a secret provision in my will to pay a look-alike of me to dress up in my clothes and stand off in the distance during the funeral. That way people will be reminded and comforted to know that I will always be watching over them.
I must have had a sour look on my face, because a friend asked me if something was wrong. There was, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them what was really on my mind. I’d spent the last 10 minutes trying to figure out if Ducktales and Darkwing Duck exist in the same universe.
When I was a kid I thought being a lawyer meant you got to deal with contracts signed in blood or settling disputes between mermaids and evil sea-witches over the ownership of a voice exchanged for legs. Turns out most of it is just sitting down in front of a computer and drinking expensive coffee.
I really don’t know why the lady in the eyeglasses store was so upset. How else am I going to test out these frames? Half the reason you wear glasses is to be able to take them off dramatically and look super serious all of a sudden.
You know that moment when you’re really feeling something, and you’re so full of emotion you want to hash out your feelings with someone else and hope they’ll validate your feelings, so you decide to share it and you walk up and try to talk to someone about it, and they’re like, giving you that concerned eyebrow shuffle on their face, like they’re concerned for your well being? Yeah. I’m right there, right now. About waffles. I am full of waffle-love, and have no one to share it with. I am not in close proximity to waffles or waffle-making technology, so I’m just stuck here on lonely waffle island, wanting them, waiting, hoping a ship made out of waffle will pass by.
I found some old papers from college the other night. I don’t know why I still had them, but I was rereading this paper for a sociology class on death. We had to write our own eulogy and describe our funerary plans. Is it unreasonable to want the pallbearers at your funeral to be dressed like ghostbusters and to be taken away in the Ecto-1 in a giant ‘trap’, to be later released into a ‘storage facility’? I didn’t think so either, but apparently that earned me a C+.
Thanks to some positive feedback, I decided to set about doing some creative writing this evening, only to realize after an hour or so that the story I was working on was completely devoid of any real plot, progression, structure or characters. It was a story about socks.
This is what I have chosen to do with my life, apparently.
I really enjoy riding my bike to work, even though I’m riding in on a crappy little Schwinn which was probably manufactured in China. I think it’s funny when other bikers pass me, look at me on my bike and shake their head, speeding on down the road on their custom frames. Hey man, it’s not my fault your bike doesn’t have streamers like mine. Get over it.