One of my primary writing and personality critics suggested I post a phrase I found in the ether a few weeks ago: Orgasm of grief. Meaning a climax of catharsis. But however you want to use it is fine.

When I dozily returned to my apartment at five this morning, my imagination was a racecar in the fuckin’ red. Lying in bed, I thought about the mating mechanics of large theropods, having unique obstacles as a result of their general physiology, pedalism, tails, and of course size. For the curious, see right. I wonder if they always picked the same side, or if their junk was set up to only work from one angle.

From mating my mind turned to eggs, from eggs to embryos, and from embryos to things that eat embryos. I imagined a transiently abandoned dinosaur nest, some of the eggs gently quaking from internal movement. Then an oviraptor came and took a massive, delicious bite out of one of them. Half eaten and hanging out of its mouth was a feebly struggling infant T-Rex covered in scrumptious yolk remnant. For the picky, it’s doubtful that an oviraptor would raid the nest of a large meat eater, but I’m sure it happened. Thinking about that today, that it happened, was uproariously funny to me. I really, really like my imagination.