When I pulled open my curtains this morning there was a raven on the windowsill. God, why today! I had a salad with oranges and Polish roses. I walked to church but couldn’t find a door. A man politely offered to steal my money but I declined. I was sick of feeling so sick. I went to a museum of torture and a museum of sex machines. I don’t think I learned anything. Afterwards I stumbled upon a hot pepper eating contest and won it. If I had tear ducts I’d cry a lot. It might sound cliché, but I can’t believe I told you about the time I got my hand peed on. What if multiple other dimensions are watching us like fish in an aquarium floating around a tiny sunken ship in a bowl of water? My heart’s been replaced with a basket of Chinese stars. I’m the starting quarterback for State and I’m lost in the mountains.
I don’t know how birds make love but I think I saw it during my morning run. Afterwards I needed a power shower. I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but I guess getting your hand peed on is symbolic. Isn’t there always a certain degree of tension in the air when a giant spider could rise from the ground and kill you at any moment? I sort of want to be a human spider. I found a fake boob in my gym’s hot tub. Man, practical criticism is a staple of my life, I thought. What is it I live for? There’s really no comparison to riding your motorcycle over a classic Volkswagen Beetle; I think my dog Jeremy has a foot fetish; it’s important to not only play songs that you love, but songs that you’re scared of, too, or that make you uncomfortable.
The teenager at the register remarked to a friend that he’d been called Cheetah, Raccoon, Guinea Pig and Hamster that day. Thanks, Hamster, I said as I paid for a Coke and left. I needed to get home and vacuum the yard. It was starting to look dirty. I wish I lived somewhere that smelled like fish guts, I thought. I mean, didn’t smell like fish guts. I’d been having trouble concentrating so I’d taken the day off. I needed it, anyway, to prepare the dinner I’d planned. My dog Jeremy fancies himself a food critic and I wanted to impress him. My last meal with him was a disaster as I inadvertently opened a gateway to evil while cooking a meatloaf. But how are you supposed to know you’re not in love when you think you are? I bet it’s like invisible hands take one side of your face and push it toward the other. I know there’s a bird omen for it but I can’t remember it.
-- Jason Bredle is the author of three books and three chapbooks, most recently Smiles of the Unstoppable and The Book of Evil. He lives in Chicago.