Tired

I'm tired today. Even my face is tired. On days like this I swill caffiene and still feel like I have my head up a badger's ass. Everything comes through the badger muffled. The world is at a distance, thanks to a nearly uniform layer of badger. The badger is heavy and, due to its struggling, difficult to balance on my shoulders. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to type.

And then there is all this unnatural hotdog ideation. I don't think this is a Freudian issue. I rarely eat hotdogs but the alien idea keeps bouncing into my head - "At lunchtime I'll eat a hotdog!" Or an image of a hotdog keeps tormenting me. Everytime it blinks into my head, it's like, "And now for a message: hotdog!" And I'm not even hungry . . . or the other h-word you're probably thinking, Cheeky Monkey.

Even if there were a pile of hotdogs in front of me I wouldn't eat one. Hotdogs aren't good. They taste like squishy salt water. And how could one eat, anyway, with the badger embottoming one's head?