I set my inflated mother doll in a wheelchair and put a bottle of morphine pills in one hand. I prop the other against her chest that she might press there and catch her breath.

I tell a joke and she laughs and gasps. I tell another and she gasps some more. I tell one right after another until she can't catch her breath, and I myself have to stop for a long inhale — until the pills fall from her hand and her grinning head drops.

I resent like hell that she died laughing. But at least she got my jokes.

Clad my casket in aluminum siding and line it with irony.

I

need to say Stop. Can't I have a private thought without some moralist telling me how I should think/feel/be?

Don't be a crutch, moral or otherwise; it cripples.

You've let me know you think I am transparent. Do you seriously think you are any less so?

You have a notion of truth that is just narrow enough to allow for only your own. If not for that, you'd have my pity.

Why choose? You could have it all.

The Omo People

A poet friend once shared this link. Recently I've been studying up on certain branches of psychology. And today is a day when the two go together.

I think I'm done with this.