I had the chance to do some reflecting last night. Here is what I learned:
I want to date that Stavros Niarchos, the young Greek shipping magnate. He's not dating Paris Hilton anymore, so he's available. He does not appear to be gay, but he'll learn to love me. I saw a photo of him in the latest issue of In Touch Weekly. Though I'm no gold digger, I would ask that he pay to have my cell phone turned back on so that we can text each other about how much we're in love and how he's sorry he ever allowed that bitch to come between us.
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I found a mounted eight-point buck head at this local thrift store. Seventy-five dollars. (That's an excellent deal.) I have it hanging above the fireplace. I have repainted the interior of the house lots of deep, modern colors from an earth tones palette. I now understand that I'm going for a "21st Century Space-Bound Hunting Lodge" look.
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Some people think that I have done lots of acid. I knew better. Imagine me on acid.
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For some reason, I scrawled this on my scrap of paper last night: "You should hitchhike more. The system doesn't want you to do that." Yeah, I'm just not sure what hitchhiking has to do with anything, but I wrote it down, so I must have thought it important. I must have been peering into the inner heart of the system last night to discern its nefarious plans.
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People with a sense of humor speak to each other in a subtle language that others don't even notice. We're planning our enemies' destruction and our own elevation as your benevolent but strict rulers.
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The trinity is weed, beer, and cigarettes.
You have to consume all these in enormous quantities in one sitting or you will not achieve enlightenment.
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That's all I have on my note paper. And none of them appear suitable for making into a proper joke. But you can see the messy birthing process of a joke.
As you were.
