Eggs: Sometimes I think about eggs. I try not to think about eggs. Every morning, I eat eggs, but I don’t really like eggs. Unless you piss hot sauce all over them. Or if you grade half a block of cheese and toss your meat in them. Then they’re okay. I guess they still aren’t good though, because it’s everything besides the egg that makes the meal as a whole seem “good.” Therefore, eggs are still gross. It’s like if you had a group of five people and four of them were super hot and the fifth one was a horse. You would still describe the group itself as pretty hot. You would probably even have sex with all of them, if they offered themselves together. Wait, no. You probably wouldn’t have sex with a horse in that scenario. Maybe that wasn’t the best example…
Meth: Sometimes I think about meth. For someone who doesn’t smoke meth, I actually think about meth quite frequently. Or maybe I just think about the word itself. I don’t often ponder the chemical properties of methamphetamine. But when I do, I drink Dos Equis. I tried Adderall once. That’s pretty much meth. Pretty sure I was up for three days. Great focus though.
Screaming at the top of my lungs: This one actually crosses my mind a lot. Especially when I’m somewhere quiet like a library or a café. Or in a classroom. The less noise and the more people who are trying to work the better. I haven’t actually done it, but boy would I like to. Imagine, you’re sitting in the café on your computer typing away. It’s busy but not packed. You’re paying attention to the sounds in the room. The swinging of the door, the steam of the espresso machine, the fresh sound of two caffeinated white girls talking about their boyfriends. You simply let it all run through you, relaxed in a wave of consciousness. Then, a lull arises. All of the sounds in the room seem to dissipate at once, as if the wind simply blew them away. This is your time. You decide to absolutely unload one from the depths of your sphincter, through your chest cavity, and out your mouth hole. You scream so loud you almost hurt yourself. Then, you immediately look back to your computer and continue typing, as if nothing happened.
Forklifts: Sometimes I think about forklifts. Not often, but sometimes. I wish I had a personal forklift. It would bring me an immense amount of joy to open the garage and back out my forklift at four in the morning, waking all the neighbors. BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP. My neighbor Frederico slowly opens the curtains of his bedroom window, half asleep, watching me back out my forklift. He wonders if this is a dream or reality, because he’s never seen a forklift in a neighborhood. He decides it must be a dream, but he keeps watching. I’m coming straight for him. I get to his front yard and stop in front of Frederico’s potted lime tree. I lower the fork and slide underneath. Slowly, I raise the fork and turn the forklift around. I’m going home. I’m going home with Frederico’s lime tree.
Selling myself for money: If this tight ass was on the market, how much do you think it would be worth? Hold on, in order to figure this out I guess I should be more specific. If I was a whore, how much should I charge? What about if I sold myself as a slave? What about if I sold each of my organs individually until I was only a tooth? How much could I make? These are the important questions I occasionally ponder. If I was a whore, I would definitely start high. I would shoot to be a one thousand dollar whore. Once I get a little worn down, I’d probably have to lower my price, though. That’s the thing about being a whore they never tell you. You’re a depreciating asset. Your worth is never higher than when you’ve got that tight virgin ass on the market. If I was a slave, I would command at least two million dollars. If I’m gonna work for free the rest of my life I better have a cushy retirement fund. If I were to sell all of my organs individually until I was nothing but a tooth, I would have to do some market research. I’d get rid of the useless ones first like my appendix. I doubt the appendix market is too demanding, though. Guess I’ll just have to sell my heart.
Making enough breakfast for the whole household: Every morning, I wake up and start making breakfast. Then, there’s a moment. There’s always a moment. A moment where I look at those eggs, I stroke that bacon, and I think to myself: maybe I should make some for everyone. Then I decide that’s a stupid idea and only make enough for myself.
Girls from high school I totally could have dated if I wasn’t such a pussy: This one is fun. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I’m just trying to start my day off right, you know? Take a shower, eat some breakfast, maybe find my way to the gym. But, sometimes there’s a roadblock. There’s a moment in the shower, when you’re consciously unaware, and all of a sudden, your unconscious mind just yells PUSSY PUSSY PUSSY. Then it decides to implant all of the most painful memories of your uncomfortable transition from adolescence to adulthood right to the forefront of your brain. It lays out a map of every scenario across time where you were so clueless it was sad, or for whatever reason you weren’t able to find just half a nut. Half a nut. That’s all you needed. But you could not provide. You could not provide. You cringe and you curl in the shower. You won’t be needing body wash today, the salt from your tears will kill any germs on the body. You get out of the shower and dry yourself. You think, man why was I such a pussy?
Flamin Hot Cheetos: Oh hell yeah, now we’re talkin. I never know when this one will hit me. It’s usually about once a month, when I’m driving. My mind is wandering, I’m enjoying some music, and all of a sudden… my mind remembers that Flamin Hot Cheetos exist. My mouth waters, and I spend the next thirty minutes contemplating whether or not I should buy a bag of Flamin Hot Cheetos. I know I shouldn’t. I know they’ll make me poop my pants. But they’re so good. And it’s only this once. It’s just one bag. I spend the next ten minutes convincing myself of all the reasons for my earning of said bag of Flamin Hot Cheetos. I’ve worked hard today, I’ve been so good with my diet, I’m just a really great guy… It’s happening. I’m buying a bag.
Scooping my eye out with a spoon and dropping it in someone’s soup at Panera Bread: Oh, nobody else? Just me? Okay.
Leaving everything I love and living with a colony of arctic dogs in Northern Canada: When life is bringing me down, there’s always the option of leaving! It can’t be me, you know? There’s no way I could improve my health or my mood or my current state of living. No, impossible. It’s the fault of everything around me. It’s where I live, who I’m friends with, and my job. It’s the fault of all of those things, and if I just leave it all, things will be better. I could get a pack of twenty-five Siberian Huskies, build myself an igloo, and just live off the land, you know? Really connect with nature. Be one with the earth. That’s where I’ll find happiness. I know it. I just know it.