that which doesn't kill you turns you into a giant cockroach
i hurt my back and have had comical sad moments of premature old age this week. the ant sometimes imagines that he is job, but he is just an ant doing ant-things. job is just an ant story anyway, so what does it matter. crazy people deserve their incoherent place in the sun too, so i shall continue, brokeback ant that i am. i live out my nights killing the roaches that overrun our kitchen to feel that i am alive and they are no longer. it is my way of trying to explain to the universe that it could be doing a better job. something better than roaches should ultimately win out i say. of course humans are often more loathsome than roaches, so perhaps i am mistaken.

we spend our days or they are spent. either way they meet their daily end. i sometimes try to fight against my limitations and only end up worsening them. that is where the mind is wonderful, dreams are an endless playhouse. one can sit and think on a couch for hours going nowhere. this is both a kindness and a curse. the world wants something to come from your labors and measures success in realities. we want to produce that success, but don't need it as badly as the world demands it. therefore we are generally satisfied, but discontent. or at least i am.

my head is gibberish on a stick. i could mumble out the words indefinitely and that is what we do with our cellphones and communication outlets. i need to get out more. out into the dissatisfied world where we can bounce our dissatisfaction kindly off each other.