Dissociate Fugue

A doll baby covered in crushed pork rinds Half a can of Campbell’s condensed cream of mushroom soup and a dog whistle A bamboo back scratcher and a back issue of Car & Driver A Polaroid of your Grandmother and a Matchbox car A milk jug full of urine you found on the side of the road A piece of celery stuffed with goat cheese Finger cymbals and two saltines Anything described as “Fudgy” One ear of Indian corn and a balsa wood airplane Your eight-grade report card and 2 empty butane lighters A Culture Club cassette and an old pair of “Jams”

Hello there. Yes, I’m fine now. I admit that I spent the better part of the first thousand feet screaming like a prison rape victim, but I am really feeling a little better about this whole thing now. I’m not pleased by any means, don’t get me wrong. There comes a time, just after terminal velocity apparently, that you enter into a gradual acceptance of your situation. Oh, I’m sure I will begin freaking out like an idiot for the last few hundred feet. I have a feeling that will really bring it home for me, once I see the ground rushing towards me. How did I get here? Funny story actually. I had been sitting at the airport bar for a solid two hours prior to the flight, and I horribly misjudged the amount of time it would take to reach the gate prior to boarding time. So there I was, bladder full of what could formerly be called pale ale, rushing like an idiot with my two carry-ons toward the less than hospitable gate worker. By the time we had taxied and taken flight, my bladd...

I spent the entire day today feeling a bit uneasy. It wasn’t the election, though that is concerning. It wasn’t the economy, though that is monkey-shit crazy. No, it was something else entirely that was causing my feelings of creeping distress. My jeans were just a bit too short. That’s right. The entire day, as I walked or sat, I would notice that I just didn’t feel right. I was seeing more sock than usual, yes, but it wasn’t like I was wearing Capri pants or anything. Then, as I strolled by the mirrored reflection of the office elevator doors, it hit me. These jeans are just a bit too short. I tried the quick fix, pulling them down a bit lower, but I figured showing that much butt crack was probably worse than showing that much ankle. Especially since I’m a dude, no matter what the regretful decision of getting that “tramp stamp” tattoo may have you believe. I admit it; I used to drink quite a bit. How did this happen? When I tried them on in the store they weren’t this sho...