Witty Shirts

A lot of the time, I feel like I’m wasting time. Time is so precious, so fleeting that to toss it aside as if it were some random toy egg your son left in your path seems a sin. You’re just going to have to pick up that shell later, Dad. It goes in its home in the plastic crate with the others. They have different shapes on the bottom that coincide with the holes in the crate. You know where it is. You might as well pick it up now and put it away. Or do it later. Unless there is no later. Ahh! That got dark fast.

Why did the font just change? Can I get someone to help with this? No? I’m on my own here? Sigh.

What are we talking about today? How about the image at the top? That’s a Meme. I think. I think that’s what the kids call a meme. It may or may not be capitalized. My friend posted that Meme on good ol’ Facebook the other day. I stole it for bloggy purposes as yet unknown. Something about it rings so true and funny and sad and fatalistic and gauche. Well, maybe not gauche so much but it’s definitely meaningful.

We’re getting older, kids. We’re not kids anymore. There was a time once, long ago (yet not so long ago) when we could run headfirst into walls and bounce back to midnight with both feet lodged firmly in our mouths, chanting “I’m feeling so real! I’m feeling so real! Yes yes here we go!”

My neck, it creaks on rusty hinges. Is this a result of the thrashes? The one nasty side effect of youth that they don’t tell you is age whiplashes. Is there an app for that? Nope. But there are pills.

You’re wasting your words this time and time is standing still so fast. Things are sloppier than they used to be. Sentence fragments are

Broken, rhyme less poems.

I could be reading right now, or writing something semi-intelligent. But if I could be doing either of those things I would be. Doing them, that is. But I believe that was implied.

Who writes these things? Who has any time for such nonsense, or for anything, while we’re at it? We’ve all got to water those ferns. I’m just kidding. I don’t have a fern.

I lived in Brooklyn for a year once. Maybe it was two, twice. I had a cat and a fern. The cat’s name was Mic like Mick Jagger but without the k. The fern’s name was Francisco, like Francisco d’Anconia. He wanted for a friend so I went out one day and got him Dagny, like Dagny Taggart. They hung in the windows facing south and I loved them and so did Mic. They were lush and I was luscious. They whispered back and forth, “Who is John Galt?” but I could never answer. Because I was faux pretentious.

Are we getting anywhere yet? Maybe we should call this spade a spade and club it in its heart… with a um diamond. An um diamond? Meh. A was probably fine.

Naproxen used to be my jam but now it’s as good as putting a band-aid on a decapitation. It does nothing for me, you see.

Advil’s alright. Advil can hang. But I swear I woke up this morning with the neck muscles jamming me. All day with this. And this is after the mild lower back spasms I got for cleaning the litter on Sunday. Or Monday what day is today? I think it was Sunday yeah cuz the wife was home. My wife. She keeps track of things like what drugs do what and what they’re actually called. I think I’ve finally caught on. I’m relatively certain now that ibuprofen is the drug that is Advil and Ixiconpoofer is what Tylenol’s all about. Am I close? Oh man, she would hate that I just dropped that dumbness down.

So welcome to adulthood, fools. You’ve been here quite sometime. How are those joints working out for you? You feel good today? If not, you can pretend well enough, yeah? All right there, chief. You get on with your bad self and I shall do the same. After all, we’ve got our empires of mediocrity to run. Full speed ahead. Watch out for the brick walls.

Tomato soup, her shirt says.