drill

I don't quite know what to write about today, which is nothing new AT ALL, but I still want to write because it just feels soooo good to type. Type type type type. Maybe it should feel better to write than to type? Yes, ideally. Except writing is sort of like an exorcism. Typing is a sensation, a sound. I should gear my blog more towards quality not quantity, but... TOO LATE!

It is a windy and warm day. Windy is fine as long as it's warm and warm is obviously fine because it means I get to wear my sleeveless denim vest. I am quite fond of my denim vest. No surprise there. I like anything sleeveless, vesty, and above all else -- denimy. Denimy. Denim and flannel will always be my staples. I should just find a job at Home Depot already. (I'd like to point out that it is a sincere dream of mine to one day work in a small town hardware store. It just is. I offer you no explanation.)

You know what thrills me? The sound of a weed whacker when I'm trying to write. I mean, when I'm trying to type. And I can't decide if it is wacker or whacker because Google tells me it is both. Can questions in life really come with two equally valid answers? Can weed w(h)ackers be outlawed in all 49 states? Can we just pretend Mississippi doesn't exist?

I think I have to call the dentist soon. :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( Like, I should have called the dentist a couple of years ago. Shrug. By the way, his last name is Pincock. Cock of Pin. The Pin of the Cock. Keep that pincock away from me! But please deep clean my teeth. Get your mind out of the gutter and into my wisdom teeth, which don't exist anymore. Your mind doesn't exist. Wisdom doesn't exist. The only real thing in this world is the gutter.

Time to vigorously brush my teeth, distract myself with some fanciful dream, and put on my denim vest (my version of a superhero cape). I am about to conquer the gutter! And eat a sandwich.