My last post read like an editorial in a high school newspaper, and for that I apologize. I mean to do better, but it is late, and I’m tired, and I’ve been concentrating on this damn novel at the expense of the poetry and wit you deserve. (caveat: I’ll get paid for the novel, but I get nothing for the blog and even less for poetry–however, if you want more and better original content just let me know and I’ll set up a kickstarter or something–I’m a better poet and a better cook than that potato salad guy).
Send me some money and I’ll make a totally badass pizza. From scratch. Heck, I’ll auction off one of these bad boys (I do a veggie, too, and a white pizza with fresh garlic, just picked from my back yard garden yesterday) and if it goes for over $1000 or equal to .50/mile I’ll deliver it in person, along with an age appropriate beverage.
Ahem, where was I? Anyway, back to the lame posts: today was the final straw. My freaking chair broke–it was an old, straight-backed wooden chair that needed some of the dowels replaced. It was getting wobbly, and I didn’t glue it, and I’m a BIG guy. One of the dowels broke and it all just came apart. Now I’m sitting on the most uncomfortable chair in known space–and it’s worse than a lot of the stuff they have in unknown space, too. (trust me, I know.)
It is impossible to write anything interesting when your ass is numb except for the occasional shooting, stabbing, mauling pain as a battered and abused nerve manages to fire. So that’s where I am–seriously thinking about bringing a lawn chair indoors until I can make it to the thrift store for another comfortable antique.
Here’s a found picture to soften the blow. That’s a lot of dogs–probably a missed opportunity for a trite jibe at Chinese restaurants.
But really, it’s a good pizza. And no, I’m not drunk. My ass just hurts.