Sh*t

George Carlin died yesterday. He was only 71; had a history of heart disease. It finally got him. Shit.

Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, Tits!

If I do say so myself...

7 more words: Good bye, we will miss you George.

Head Stories

Over vegan French toast a friend of mine reminded me about some valuable information today. It changed the tenor of my day, immediately.

It’s the idea of “head stories.” Stories we tell ourselves about things that we need/want to do, or situations we may find ourselves in.

What is a head story?

Like this: Oh, god, I don’t want to call Suzanne because she always keeps me on the phone too long and I end up getting resentful. I know if I call her I’ll be on the phone at least an hour.

How do you know? You don’t know that.

Yes, yes I do know. She always does it.

But you can’t know that she’ll keep you on the phone.

Oh, yes, believe me. I know.

You might believe she will, or you might be afraid she will or you might remember that she has in the past, but you can not know she will keep you on the phone for at least on hour this time.

So, dreading it, I call Suzanne.

We talk for 8 minutes. A sweet connection.

Head stories. I wrecked at least an hour of my day telling myself stories and believing they were true. They were not investigative, journalistic reporting.

They were damn convincing fiction.

Get back...

I want to get back in the habit of writing here. So, as part of an exercise here is some writing: I am going to meet a friend for breakfast this morning.

Slim was outside for no more than 5 minutes and caught a Meadow Vole. She had it for breakfast. I took up her food bowl.

Oh, there was no Triple Crown winner, again.