Usually, when a bunch of people walk through where I am located (mostly at the library), I wonder to myself, why? I wonder why they are here in front of me, why I am here inside of me, and then I start to wonder about poisoned food and diluted water and why the world is flat and why people blow things up with kindness and bomb other countries with hugs and start race wars over color crayons and argue about fictional religions, and science fiction, and generalize and disagree about things that are merely fabricated by good fabricators… Also, oscillating fans… WTF… then I realize I am happy because my cereal didn’t taste like shit.
I stand at the desk like a pinball machine, blinking lights—my eyes, or like a mirror giving you what you want, or like a rigid robot: I just answer questions, I don’t think on those (my answer just has to sound good. It doesn’t actually have to be good). I give people basic advice about certain issues and inquiries. I usually don’t mind, because it really doesn’t matter. I care though. My existence is about the same as everyone else’s—unless I am yelling aloud, or stopping traffic because I think it will change my position in society, or making a scene to get desperately noticed; but I really don’t matter, which is great. But, I really do care, which sucks. Though, at times, I’d rather live in the woods and never deal with other people, ever…
So, I love Grape Nuts… And I love bananas. I had the privilege of eating both of these amenities for breakfast at a table which I acquired—and carried home from an estate sale… Neither of the things I ate for breakfast spoke to me, which was great… The table also never talks to me… meh. I thought about things though, in my head… Essentially someone died so I could eat at this table. I did not know the person, yet their yellow table is pretty neat, and rather inexpensive! Onward, I am sure Post cereal has some skeletons in its closet as well—the dead. And I am sure that banana farms in other countries oppress the local citizens with guns, and kill and steal and terrorize… I want to start a movement—something-something bananas! Something-something Post!
Today I called a book a “bastard”, and I got a ride into work on petrol in a rattling truck. Perhaps that sentence was an example of a comma splice? I yell at a book, “GET OUT OF MY FACE, BOOK!” I put it on a cart, and it was hauled away to a dark box where it is kept for 3 days, on the third day it is taken out and lined up with other books to be labeled, opened up, studied, assessed, interrogated, tortured, and then dropped off again, who knows when. You know, dropped off! I think about the interaction I had with this book. Like, get out of my “face” and “book”, two words respectively, not the social media site: Facebook. That is entirely different, much more of a problem… I wonder: do these books have rights? Either way it’s a hack.
So, why your cereal tastes like shit… Well, I don’t know… Do you think your cereal tastes like shit? Do you go to sleep at night and think about it tasting this way, or that way? I know other people I am around daily think about what they will wear to work—that may be more important than cereal, which is cool—to each their own. I am more of a food guy. Clothes come in second for me, unless I am naked and it’s cold—unless that. So, do you wake up after fantasizing about how your cereal tastes? I don’t. But it’s good. Your cereal probably doesn’t taste like shit… It doesn’t matter…
I guess it doesn’t matter what your cereal tastes like, it’s all subjective for the most part anyway. Unless you are eating dog shit, or sour grapes, or old kale, and washing it down with laundry detergent, or motor oil, or ranch dressing… See, writing that last sentence left a bad taste in my mouth, and hopefully yours. But, taste doesn’t matter, it’s all opinion, and that doesn’t matter, it’s all about facts, and who writes those anyway? I have no clue, but my stomach turned my brain on this morning by processing Grape Nuts and bananas. My cereal tasted pretty forgetful…
