I do, I think everyone should have a ballistic gel dummy in every room of their house with a butcher knife attached to it by a bungee cord.
Just get, like, four or five or six or… 20 good stabs in before you leave the room. 49 good stabs, maybe. Do multiples of seven. Every time. Because it just feels right. Because you almost have to.
Or else something bad might happen.
Maybe break a light sweat.
Look, I’m tired. I’m so tired I could shit. I could woodwork. Model airplane, even.
I could build a Luftwaffe Bomber. Not because I like the Nazis, just because it was the first one I saw.
Not because I like the Nazis.
OK, give me an American airplane. That’s fine, too, I guess, I don’t care. (Gosh, this sucks. This sucks. This one sucks.)
I’m telling you, I’m so tired I could join an adult kickball league. Drink beer at adult kickball and barely conceal my competitive rage and pull a muscle and meet my future wife. And drink more beer. At adult kickball.
Make a conscious decision to be hungover at work the next day.
And one night, having finally risen to a position of leadership within the team, looking around at everyone in the dugout in the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, 2 outs, and saying finally: “Guys. Honestly. I just hope God isn’t watching us right now.” And them just staring back at me. “Because I know how painful this would be for Him to see.”
And getting up, grabbing another beer, and just walking out to the parking lot.
Then driving home silently while my wife chews me out. Nonstop. And when we get home I tell her flatly that I’m moving to North Dakota for the cheap rent and “to get the fuck away from everyone.”
But before I go I tell her I need to use the printer. Because I want to print an ancient Greek timeline to take with me. And it takes me a long time to decide which one I like best. So long that I don’t have a chance really to expand the scope of the project to include ancient Egypt or the Near East. So it almost ends up being, like, Greek history in a vacuum. But I guess it’s better than no Greek history at all.
And then deciding to just take the printer with me. Just fucking… getting a separate room at the hotel. For the printer. Adjoining rooms. Just having a cocktail and walking back and forth as page after page of timeline comes out of my little HP Officejet. He’s my little HP Officejet. He’s my evil little jet, my Messerschmitt Me 262.
Arranging the timelines on the floor and making observations out loud. Smart observations.
Man and HP Officejet in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Full of viscous dark liquid, both of us. Dark as black dark blackness. On our way to Anywhere, North Dakota. Because it’s nice and cold and the website said cheap rent.
But, hey, we’ve got our timelines straight. At least we’ve got that. We’ve got some good context. Kind of seeing the whole picture now. Meaning the real learning can finally begin.
Pouring a little bourbon into a compartment of the printer. Because he’s earned it. And it doesn’t seem to be damaging anything. Which is good.
All this I could do. All this because I’m so, so tired.