Poopsicle.

"On these warm days, I feel a strange sense of foreboding, as if something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong," quoth I to Ricky Dicky Micky Sticky Licky Douchebag. "I love marijuana cigarettes," quoth he to me. I think, "I should be a wall, not a person."

Today, this week, this month I find myself incapable of abstraction but capable of abstract psychology. I whirl around naming hang-ups and neuroses. "Seek counseling" quoth the counselor. "You would," quoth I. But I am far too busy analyzing to be analyzed. I refuse the flocked chaise but I'm putting baby there all the time. Brecht and Artaud gather snot in their noses to smear on me at a later date. "Look at yourself, concerned with persons not people!" Then they mime masturbation. I feel sassed.

Inevitably, I come back to the fact that there is often a cat in our bathtub chasing his tail or cats hissing at each other in the hall. These are points of contention for me above all others. I cannot name this feeling, because it is not so much a feeling as a symbol that has no signifiers but feels like a symbol for my life anyway. When I see them I think, "Am I waiting for grown-upness to happen to me? I wait for a lot to happen to me. I am in the waiting-room all the time. In the waiting-room reading the boring-ass, crappy fucking magazines about things I don't care to know." Cats make me think. Maybe it's the smell.

What I am saying is, I fold. Count me out.


I am too childish to play this game. My dad beats me at Monopoly, he's been doing it for nearly twenty-two years and I still tear up a little. "Look at yourself," quoteth Brecht and Artaud, "sell back our books to the bookstore and give back that one you 'borrowed' because your fingers are stinging our pages." "You would," quoteth I. Then I snot on them before they can snot on me. "Ha" I say. "You would" quoth they.

So much for being a sophisticate. For being urbane or academic. So much for being abstract. I guess I won't be the caftan wearing type.