In which I reveal that I own a poo-scraping knife.
Even flow. Thoughts arrive like plaid-wearing guys.
We can’t all be a snowflake unicorn fractal.
Girlfriend in a quesadilla, I know. This is serious.
I can’t promise that I’ll like it. But I can promise to hate the bass player’s hat.
“Oh, that game’s for kids.” “You must hate kids.”