There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing
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There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing I can't do. Whew. OK. Whew. Whew. Here goes
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nothing. Baby steps, I told myself. My memory palace was full of grand exhibits of crushing failure. But I kept picking myself and dusting myself off. Once I had done nothing, then
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I decided to invite local artists to display sculptures and crayon drawings in my memory palace. The exhibition was to be held next Saturday and tickets were
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on sale at Retirement homes and Crayola factories. My Memory Palace was decorated with subtle grays in early spongiform. The brut crayon artists of the east wings compulsive circle
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doodled on my Memory Palace, flooding me with false memories of red stick figure poodles. I hosed the Palace and transfered my real memories to a Memory Bank, where interest rates
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expanded. I could smell the red velvet cake on my sixth birthday and hear The Muppet Show playing in the other room. Unfortunately, I went bankrupt and had to foreclose my memories
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. Some government agency bought them and decided to condense them all into one Happy-Time commercial for the local kid's indoor playground. Or so I'm told. The freedom of having no
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school debt was like being a sovereign lord of a small Slavic village. Or so I'm told. Or so I'm told that I was told. So I took out a loan, a big fat loan full of chunky interest
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and tied a babushka around my head, a symbol of my highly educated shame. I never should have majored in philosophy. There was only 1 thing I could do: take out another loan &
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retrain as a dog groomer. 'The more I know about people, the more I love my dogs,' said someone, maybe a philosopher.
5
- Started
- 2012-12-20 18:33:43
- Finished
- 2013-03-26 13:50:08
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