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There seems to be something gnawing on the chicken-bone of my subconscious. Not just gnawing, but dipping it in creamy, blu-cheese dressing and sucking on it.

Thank goodness for the wet-nap, or whatever is doing the gnawing would contaminate the rest of my psyche. I like my non-physical parts to be separate. Like a melamine hot-lunch tray. Everything stays within it’s little-walled-area and nobody gets fussy.

Unfortunately, or maybe not, there does seem to be some breach in the Dreaming ~ Day Dreaming compartments. Sandbagging might help. Or a thick, mashed-potato partition – the mashed potatoes finally living up to their destiny.

Great writers are great ruminators but great ruminators are not necessarily great writers. I think that’s what I’m talking about. Or was I talking about my days in the cafeteria? Ah, the cafeteria…“Lunch Lady? Would you mind being careful to keep the gravy in its… No? Yes, you’re right. It all ends up in the same place…”  In the toilet. Which is, of course, a metaphor. That’s what happens when you give children mixed-messages.

So, anyway. I have a growing collection of printer’s cuts and for some reason I feel compelled to give each of them something to say. I realize that the New Yorker’s Caption Contest is eerily similar to what I do. Except I always win. That’s the nice thing about owning the company. Thatand the hugs I get from complete strangers. Why do strangers hug me? They might be trying to squeeze the life out of me. I’m not sure. They tell me not to resist – I’m always like, “Resist? Resist what? Who am I to stifle this bizarre act of love?”

Where was I? … Right. A line I wrote for a lonely cut:

PSSST,

are you coming to my funeral?