I am having a s-l-o-w day. I’ll be cutting out of here in the next 45 minutes without the energy required to take a trip to the grocery store like I had planned to. I will, however, be somehow able to muster the strength necessary for the Herculean effort of pouring my carcass into my recliner and somehow, somehow commanding my thumb to flip recklessly through the dozens and dozens of available TV channels. I only pray I make it that far.

Should I somehow lose momentum between my door and my living room, and be forced instead to collapse in a quivering flesh-heap in front of my computer, I may be compelled to make the even greater effort of surfing the net for 6 straight hours. At which point, I would expect any number of forgotten friends to burst into my apartment, chanting back to me the same mantra I spewed to them when I wasn’t quite as much of a nerd, but saw the writing on the wall, “Man, if I ever become one of those guys who surfs the net all day, I want you to shoot me.” The phrase repeated over and over again, zombie-eyes glazed and bloodshot, squinting only momentarily to sight down their various shotguns and rifles aimed at my head, to which is attached a pleading mouth that is caught screaming in a slow-motion, “Noooooooooo!” as the first pebble of quail-shot expelled from the muzzle of my long-lost pal Rob’s sawed-off 12-gauge punctures one eyeball, thankfully blanking out half of my death scene. The other, though, captures the final gruesome scene where Missa, my first real girlfriend, smiles sweetly and mouths, “You made us promise” as her inexplicable elephant-gun explodes in my face.

Or maybe I’ll take a nap.

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