i don't think it is pudding

on odd days i get up. even days i send my robot me out to do my day things. so on odd days my me robot stays in bed all day. often on these odd days while i'm out doing my day things i wonder about what my me robot is thinking aboooooooooooot. I imagine it's thinking about my inability to use capital letters properly, or perhaps it's counting the atoms in the fluffballs that float to the ceiling. Maybe it's not thinking and it's just off. Maybe its got my laptop and has cleverly deduced my clever password, and is secretly updating my blog. My favorite kind of toast is not burned toast. Too burned is gross. Frying pans. Radio knobs. Analog listening devices. Sometimes give it my all, sometimes I fall short of "the mark". Mark is a penis. And his penis left a mark on the toll collectors underwear. see? see what i'm talking about? i didn't write any of this, but yet and somehow it appears here. robot me must be partial to omelets. I keep making omelets and turning to get the salt and finding the omelet gone. What omelet? you know what omelet. the one i was just about to salt and you took. i didn't take any omelet. you did too. i did NOT. whatever. you know what? you can totally type stuff in this box. Just log in, click the button, and fuckin' type stuff. It's like magic! penis magic.

Did you know that there is magic all around you? It's the truth. I went around the corner the other day, and I saw magic collected in the corner, as if magic wind had blown it into a drift there. But who cares about that. The point is, if you wanted to just snap your fingers and say "ABRA CADABRA A LA PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICHES!" in hopes that a sandwich would appear in front of you which you could consume with a big peanut buttery smile on your face, you totally couldn't. Why? Because you suck at magic. It's not that it doesn't exist, it's just that you can't do it. If you wanted to learn you'd have to fly into space. Not outer space ether. Don't think so narrowly. I'm talking about the space where dreams are made. You'll never get it, so I feel bad for you. You really need to thing about when the children cry. You need to think about why you miss the toilet when you pee in the dark. You need to look further under the couch when you sweep. It's dusty under there.

Once when it was Tuesday I fucking stubbed my toe. I thought I was going to loose control and punch children it hurt so bad. Fuck! Which is funny because that TOTALLY happened to you too this weekend. What the fuck?! Weirder still is that I thought that I wrote "I fucking stabbed my toe" and the mental image that evoked was hilarious. Ok, I need me to focus more on writing something about things that are not pudding. Call the doctor!

My plate is full and I wear a lot of hats too. I also like to keep a lot of balls in the air; if you know what I mean. It's stupid, but I do it all the time. Tell me it's not big deal. Tell me and I'll try to incorporate a little more in to it. I tried it and it was too promotional. Hold on, hold on, hold on. why isn't this fucking opening... here it is. What do you want me to do? Get rid of the call to action? Ok. Except you keep forgetting to show me how the young ones learn slowly and are effectively stupid so they try to eat plastic bags and shit. Seriously? What are you like a baby or something?

I actually did have pudding after dinner last night. It made a huge mess all over the TV screen when Ray came in and threw it against the chandalier, which dispersed it elegantly across the room. Thanks a lot, Ray.