WHY THE DINOSAURS DIED

Statement by the apartment mate: "you should only inquire about one sex at a time". Based on best guess, this probably is because if you ask about both, the answer is "yes".

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Yes."


Morning conversations around this place tend toward zen. There are times when I realize you had to have been there in order to grasp the meaning, and then realize that I actually was there.

There was a conversation about flamethrowers, which deviated directly into speculation about a species of dinosaur that survived entirely by consuming eggs. For some reason the females were always angry at the males, and eventually there were fewer and fewer of them.

This in connection with an omelette.

Her breakfast.


ENJOYING PLAGUES, FLOODS, AND FIRES

I myself seldom eat any breakfast. When I wake up, I am happiest with a cup of coffee or two, and the delightful prospect of smoking a pipe, possibly while reading news articles about what a truly horrible place the world has become, with wars, natural and industrial disasters, pestilence, and European politicians secretly getting twisted sex from Vladimir Putin's handmaidens, or whatever goes on in the closets of power.
I also like reading about Republican stupidity.
First food: lunch, late in the day.
When I'm vibrating.

Consequently, while I am still slowly waking up, my apartment mate has shot out of her room like a bat out of hell, and is whirling about with high bloodsugar, totally alert and full of piss and vinegar. I would ignore it, and go back to sleep, except that she is also conversational at that hour.

I can just imagine the sheer dawn horror if I actually had a girlfriend.

My apartment mate would wake up, then the person sleeping next to me, and both of them would have a wonderful breakfast together while cheerfully agreeing that the gentleman still grumblingly asleep (me) was a bit of an old sourpuss, especially before the coffee had taken effect, lets go dump some cold water on him, I will snatch the stuffed animals to safety while you yank off the covers.

All of this at freezing six o buggery clock in the A.M.

Morning conversations are like tar pits.

You stumble into them.

Never out.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================