In a delightful gesture completely out of character for B&A Properties, someone in the leasing office decided that lung cancer would be a fine addition to fused windows, piss-poor electrical systems, and unquenchable radiators. I stepped out of a shit-smelly sidewalk and into an apartment building filled with the scent of lacquer and paint thinner tonight, and boy was I chipper.
It’s like they laced the stuff with happy powder, I was so overjoyed. I skipped up four flights of stairs, singing all the way, and with a merry jangle I fished out my keys. A couple of ho-ho-frickin’-ho’s later, I stepped into my studio.
“Splotch, I’m home!” I whistled, taking in deep draughts of pure, sweet lacquer.
Splotch, unfortunately, had turned into an absolute rabbitch, repeatedly hurling himself from one end of his cage to the other. It must’ve been the fumes. The walk-in closet contained the last pocket of breathable air, so into the closet he went. As for me, I deluded myself into thinking I could un-fuse some of my windows, so into my lungs went the fumes.
Hey, gentle reader, sleepover at my place! Should I move? I should move.
As she sits in the bastion of the Tribune building typing away, moving the world of journalism one clickety-clack at a time, Hearst probably thinks I am an absolutely vile person. A seemingly ignored e-mail here, a missed opportunity to hang out, a journal entry gone unanswered–one plus one plus one adds up to a sum filled with negativity.
This, of course, is easily explainable. I am a horrible correspondent. There, complete absolution, and a public one at that. While I approve of the rapport you have with your youth group kids–one filled with love and imminent corporeal violence–you have sullied the very concept of the Cane of Good Behavior. Even the greenest bumpkin who just fell off the turnip truck knows that the
I’ve figured out why the sidewalk by my apartment complex stinks to high heaven. The answer came to me, gentle reader, when I stepped unwittingly on some berries that looked like small peaches but actually smelled like peaches straight out of a cat’s ass.
I’m not sure who in their right mind would ever plant such a tree on Main Street, though I suppose there’s no accounting for bad taste. We’ve all got to lose–and lose horribly–at the Olfactory Game sometime. Shel Silverstein, I’d like you to meet my Shitting Tree. That’s right, go ahead and eat your heart out.