At the beginning of this year I thought to myself, “Now, old boy, is the time you ought to buy a woolen suit. Surely at your advanced age there will be funerals to go to if not weddings and baptisms. Wouldn’t you like to look sharp for these ceremonies that mark the passage of time?” Damn fine idea. Just wait until I accumulate some dough.
That day hasn’t come.
Instead I’ve spent every spare penny on travelling. I’d reckon that since the beginning of the year I haven’t spent more than half a dozen weekends at home. To tell the truth, that suits me fine. Things are getting boring. The spinning hamster wheel of doom is closing in. Time to do something other than sit ’round the domicile and get buckled out of my skull. No. Much better to sit ’round someone else’s domicile and get buckled out of my skull. Better still to find some esoteric far away place to get buckled out of my skull.
And so the spinning hamster wheel of joy begins anew: Philly, Philly, Boston. By then it’s the Fourth of July if you can believe that. My God, where has the time gone?
I’m not sure whether to sing Invader Zim’s Doom Song or Ren and Stimpy’s Happy Happy, Joy Joy.