Reso . . . Screw That


Last night while getting ready for bed, I look at my feet and think: “The hell, am I pregnant!?!” Yeah,  fat and swollen.

Do men retain water in their feet? I guess so. Probably fat guys in particular.

I think about resolutions and how belittling they are. Most of the time they lie. We delude ourselves and keep Gold’s Gym in business. I return to thinking about my swollen, water-retaining feet and fall asleep with that on the brain.

About four hours later, I wake in a sweat and breathing heavily. Nightmare. I dream I never get ready for the theory-paper a teacher from two years ago required. I dream I attack the walls of an apartment in South Korea and peel the wall paper off the wall. Damn Kafka and post-structuralism! The wind through the window howls. I had kicked the blankets off.

I get out of bed, decide I better clean my bed in the morning (which I do . . . I even vacuum), make some fake kool-aid, down that and some pills and watch Back to the Future. I draw a picture about resolutions (not the one above, still the one above is titled “Dehumanization”).

You know, I’ve been outlining for a year or so, I know the time is perfect and still I dither. Damn Kafka and post-structualism. I start thinking about Mammy, Megyn Kelly, Lenny Brisco and D&G and go back to sleep.

Resolutions suck. I avoid them and yet there is the one that has to happen.


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