Foam Explosion

I came home drunk last night and cooked something—a toasted bagel. I put the plate in the dishwasher, threw in some soap, turned it on and went to bed. The hours were all wrong. I was confused and passed out with the bagel on my pillow.

At nine I woke up and walked to the kitchen for water. And I got water—and foam. The entire floor was soaked in foam six inches tall. I stepped in the foam, got a glass of water, and sopped back to bed.

When I woke up at three—yes, three—I went back to the kitchen. The foam was gone and the floor was squeaky clean.

Was it all a dream? I decided to investigate.

The box of dishwasher detergent was empty. The antibacterial handsoap was, it would seem, my drunken way of cleaning the dishes. I must have used half the bottle, which lay in the sink looking guilty.

I turned the dishwasher on once more to rinse the dishes and foam poured out from the machine. “Shit!” I yelled, and unrolled long squares of papertowels on the floor, dancing on them and slipping around. Five minutes of internet investigation later, I returned to the crime scene with a bottle of vegetable oil and a prayer. I emptied a cup of Wesson into the machine and turned it on once more.

The foam stopped. The floor is squeaky clean.

The only downside, I think, is that I’m all out of oil. That and my dishes feel slightly greasy.

The Entertainment

I finished Infinite Jest tonight. It’s Halloween—how apropos. It only took my five months and two copies. I would be the P.G.O.A.T. for Halloween, but I don’t have a veil or a crackpipe. Plus, I’m trying to fold a toga out of a sheet. It won’t stay on. Boo!

Social Networking

Facebook is no place to air your dirty laundry. It should be washed thoroughly and air-dried on Twitter.

Swollen Shellfish

There are other things that turn purple—lamb chops and bruises and watercolor monsters. These are all the shiny ways, not the atrophied purple, like swollen shellfish.

Like Egg Yolks

How does love fit into this equation any differently than my career? I don’t know. How do you strain and separate your life, like egg yolks? My life is divided by seconds—not that I had any say in it. Not that anyone asked any of us, did they? But that’s what we get. Daylight and darkness, divided up amongst us like work and home, like youth and old age.

Wants & Needs

There are two types of people in this world: those who fight for what they want and those who settle for what they need. The problem is, I have no idea what I want or what I need.

Might as well jump.

When god closes a door he opens a window. I think god is suggesting you might as well jump, because it sounds like you’re totally fucked.

Horror Story

The problem with your late twenties is that it is, usually, when you realize you will die. You’ve found white hairs and most, if not all, of your grandparents are dead. And by your late twenties, you’ve mostly landed yourself in one career or another, some white-collar hole, and let’s just say the cement has been poured. Only later do you realize you’ve effectively poured your own pair of cement feet. For now, it’s the crap on the sidewalk you just want to write your initials in. Later, it’s some sort of gravestone. I’m not trying to scare you, I’m just letting you know if you want to get out, get out before it’s too late.