The # 7, St. Joseph's

The words to the tune that the bus driver whistled from the downtown square to just before my stop:
I'd rather be a forest than a street
Yes I would, if I could, I surely would
I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes I would, if I only could, I surely would

Big lion yawns after a Sunday with almost everything in it

Pajamas just aren’t desperate enough, neither is brushing your teeth, and taking out your contacts only is if you pour yesterday's leftover solution into the old wine glass next to your bed. Sleep, like other things, ought to be desperate sometimes. At 4 when you wake up because you hear the pipes stir, that’s when you unbutton your pants and tear away your undergarments, not ‘til then. You’ll sleep through it when everyone makes a cinnamon scented breakfast and when each person unearths his/her coat from the mound, ever growing, right above your room. Kind of like being so thirsty that you don’t even mind if the water misses your mouth. Sleep should be like that, sometimes.

And sometimes sleep should linger into the morning and early afternoon even when you don’t need it. When you’ve had too much of it and it has closed your eyes again, let it. Turn off the clock radio, right off so it won’t just try again. Lay there. Build a need for the day. Then eventually get up and go out. Seize it, right? Yeah? Carpe diem? Yeah. You did O.K. Not bad.

Today's similies

Writing is like a big long game of scrabble.
Being rejected is like growing out your hair.

Purely Polyester

Here, let me get that for you. You’ve got irony dripping from your mustache.

Leave well enough alone

Don't pick scabs. Don't flick picked scabs into the air. Flicked scabs will land, the way things flicked into the air tend to. If the flicked scab sticks to a foot, someone will know it was you. You, the person nursing an open wound.

Justice

I killed all the spiders and now I've got a buzzing house fly.

Tempura