Snotting black

So I want to change the world. Go figure. Who doesn’t? The question is: how the blork am I going to do that?

The solid, hot truth is that I have no freaking marbled cake idea of how this dumb globe even works. Thanks a lot, 4-year education at an “accredited” institution.

If only I’d read a little bit more Dante maybe I’d know what the heck was going on, and how hurricane what’s-her-face is connected to the plight of migrant workers is connected to Wal-Mart is connected to the Christ and Madonna and soaring flocks of macaws in the Amazon.

Heck, I don’t even know how to dress myself. Every single pair of pants I own has or had a hole in it, and I spent two hours today trying to figure out what a person who goes to a professional job for work looks like. I failed miserably and ended up gawking at tubs of extra-terrestrial creatures at an Asian supermarket before day drinking and retiring to my abode where I contemplated the chocolate-covered toffee on my desk and felt the impending free time about to destroy my brain.

I must do something.

This is the eternal desire, the ever-burning flame within my pasty breast. I must do something. But what does it look like? How does it taste and smell? Does it like children? Will the child I babysit like it more than me? These questions bubble to the surface of my existence like those tell-tale doom bubbles in the lower intestine after a July chili cook-off.

What must I do? Should I climb the tallest mountain? Should I chop down the tallest tree in the forest? Should I drink the tallest milk shake? Tell the tallest tall-tale? Slap the tallest man? Braid the hair of the tallest woman? Wear the tallest pants? Take a dump in the tallest building?

Am I even on the right track with the tallest thing? Do you see the problem here? Sometimes the world is spinning and spinning and just when I think I have the game down and I’m hopping and stepping in time with everyone else like at St. Gregory’s Church, I catch my breath and realize I have little to no idea what’s going on.

It’s refreshing and terrifying, like a cucumber-scented bodywash that dissolves your skin days after you use it.

And then, after I figure out what I must do, how do I do it? Are the discovery and the doing part of the same thing? Can you have one without the other?

But here’s a better question: how do I forget all of this and just get to the point where I want to make a lot of money? Isn’t that a safer and less confusing place to be—more easily quantified too!

And then I could blog about money, and everyone would want to read my words and learn out how to get rich like me and I would purchase a pair of shoes without holes.

Alas alas, I am in the holey time of my life, and there is much pondering to do. Join me, if you dare. Mock me, if you will. Just don’t ask to see the inner thighs of my pants.