Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

If it weren’t for my nihilism and self loathing, I’d never get anything done. Alcohol also helps. And whiskey, which is a kind of alcohol. Somewhere in that knowledge is a life lesson. Stay in school. No, that’s not it.

There’s a thing about stuff, you know? Hard work and perseverance and overcoming adversity. And then there’s the story about that guy. You know? The guy! He used to wear shirts with buttons and then he noticed one day that all the cars were driven by assholes, so he invented bipedal motion. One foot in front of the other, as I always say. Step by step. And then he got hit by a car. Irony? No, just an unfortunate coincidence.

Speaking of coincidence, there was the other guy who felt a pain in his hand all of a sudden, and at the same time, 25 miles away, his wife slammed her hand in the car door. Just to feel… anything… for she was dead inside. She was into self harm, like cutting and whatever the psychologists call slamming your hand in the car door just to feel something other than sadness. Yeah, it was that. Coincidence? Yes. Definitely. By definition.

But then he got cancer. No, not cancer: schistosomiasis. From wading knee deep in the river Nile. And then he started wearing jackets with sleeves, and shirts with zippers, so he didn’t need to use the elevator anymore, because there were stairs that went both up and down, like his emotions and bank balance. So, he resolved that day, right there and then, that tomorrow would be different. Thursday. Or, maybe Tuesday.

And then the transformation was complete. Completely done. Completed. Finished, is what I am trying to say. And that guy, was you! No, not you. Someone else. Not, you. That guy was taller and wore a big black hat, and he smoked—all over—like he was on fire or he just stepped out of a volcano. Crap. What was his name?

Twenty-three letters, starts with R. Rumpledforeskin? No, that’s not it; not enough letters. And that guy always reeks of burnt onions, so I would have led with that, “You know, the guy who reeks of burnt onions?” And you’d be all, like, “Oh, yeah! Rumpledforeskin!”

So, it’s not him. It was someone else who had the same exact things happen to them, but not exactly the same. Just really, really similar. The same, but different. Let’s just call him Greg so we can move on.

Thanks for hanging in there, thinking this thing was going somewhere. It never was. Sorry about that. Remember: if you can’t do something well, do it fast and carelessly. Recklessly is OK, too.

—DG.

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