I finally came to terms with doing my taxes and got upended by missing paperwork and incorrect software. Instead I stress ate an entire pizza and smashed a can of Coke like it was water at the end of some desert pilgrimage. There will be another day for taxes and the unconstitutional burping that is currently underway will subside and make way for the grotesque remorse that is sure to follow. In the meantime I will hang my head low in honor of all those that have overeaten pizza before me and make sure to make some semblance of the sign of the cross as I lay my head down tonight in the unlikely event that the veins and arteries that service my heart don’t explode with the recent addition of copious amounts of cholesterol and sodium. Actually, I have no idea how veins and arteries explode, but it seems to make sense since all the mobster movies that exist tell the story of the overweight gunslinger meeting his demise after consuming some sort of Italian fare. It could happen and because it happened in the movies it must be true. Regardless, I’m siting here and writing this on the toilet in a room in a house in Minneapolis and laughing about how ridiculous it must be for you, the reader, to have made it this far. Bookended, at each knee, by a skateboard and an open door, I’m just sitting here waiting for some level of relaxation and comfort knowing that neither will arrive until I have moved myself to the bed and assumed a fully horizontal position. Then, and only then, will I be able to take the deep, deep breaths of meditation and some kind of awkward, sideways prayer that will hopefully leave me resting humbly at the feet of the part time piece of toast known as Jesus.
It’s a real goddamn party here tonight.