What impresses me most about brilliant authors (e.g. Hemingway, who or whatever devours the flesh of Dan Brown) is not their capacity to limn the sublime and grotesque intricacies of the human condition, but their ability to do so without going insane. Or more precisely, without going insane immediately. Perhaps writing for such folk is a way to fend off the battering of their genius against what would otherwise be a cheerful and creative mind. So as not to pretend to be wiggling into said club, this entry will be short and have nothing to do WWI, alcoholism, or shotguns.

Last night I dreamt that after sleeping in an oversized, rusted sink, I awoke with dozens of wounds on my arms and legs. One of these injuries grew ferociously painful and so grossly infected that my mother would not look at me. What’s the deal, Mum?

Fortunately for her, she’ll be able to redeem herself this weekend during a brief visit. Along with my dad, we’ll be visiting Hanging Rock State Park north of Winston-Salem, NC (mmmmm, flavor country) for some hiking and conversation about not religion. I’ll also be able to show off my “adult” apartment, and maybe even my “adult” diapers. We’ll have to see how things play out.