Social Studies

You still can't name your child "Dalton"
Because he won't emerge from your home until university,
Covered in hair gel, thin as a rake, unblinking.

He wants to be first, for no reason.
He thinks only after he begins to speak, in long broken sentences.

They begin with "I think we can see"
continuing much later with "powerful, um, emotion ..."
and inevitably end with
"so we, here, in our time ... cannot ever comprehend it".

My brains shrinks to hear him hear himself
and raise his gangly hands to gesture impotently
smiling, satisfied that he has landed the words anywhere.

If no one objects, then he must have done so very well.
He lies so transparently that people nod and smile, and he forgets that he lied;
he was only trying to fit in.

Wherever he comes from
everyone is named Dalton.

UPDATE:
He stops me after class, saying "I see that you have a class ring now. And that you write with a fountain pen. And your pocket handkerchief. It all goes together." He seems to think these are prerequisites for graduation.

I've finally meet an extraterrestrial who just can't pass for human.
Or I am an extraterrestrial and he is a vapid human, I don't rightly know any longer.

Week 8: Vegging Out.

Pish challenged us to eat vegan for a day this week. So I cut out my two eggs on Monday. Done.
The day looked like this: 

Breakfast: Steel-cut oats, no salt. Water, coffee with cocoa powder and sweetener.

Lunch: Whole-wheat Bagel, almond butter, water, green tea. 

Dinner: Vegetable soup I made. Red lentils, mushrooms, spinach, garlic, cumin, cinnamon, turmeric, black pepper, celery, onions, bell-peppers. Veg broth and canned tomato soup. Turned out more like a veg stew, but very nice and very filling.

No added salt from my hand. The canned soup was a cheat, and added both salt and sugar, but that was an indulgence that saved me time and put a little "fuck this" into the mix when I needed it. It was all OK. The soup was a highlight of my day. The wife even liked it. Sorry, I didn't Instagram any of it for you.  
You're welcome.

News: The Happy

This is late, but the timing fits. I need the prompting to focus on this, because I'm a bit of a downer when left to my own devices. Other people seem so much more interesting that I enjoy myself the most talking about their lives. Nevertheless, there are:

Things That Make Me Happy

See how damned happy I can get?

---

The List:

Houseparty!

My parents asked me to look after the dog once.

I was 20, and living elsewhere, and they were going away for a four-day weekend. The dog was an idiot, and I truly believed that it might need someone to keep it from getting its head stuck in its own bowl and flailing around the house until it caught fire.

My Secret Weapon

Still holding to this challenge, managing my weight, with another pound lost, and a confession.
I have a secret:

I can drop all that food without feeling too bad about it.

I did for a year once before. I'm good at giving up things. Costs me nothing, and it's only food.
So much easier than doing extra things.

But I'm finding the time to run for the moment, as well. And I mean to continue that.

And I just learned something very important to all this:

Week 4. The Sacrifice: You Shall Not Pass

WARNING: I am drawing the line, and there is some harsh language and some hard truths in this post. Some of your "friends" are going to get what they deserve. They aren't really anyone's friends.

I have had it up to HERE with you, Cheese! You stink, you're sticky and greasy and you gum up my throat, you have enough salt in you to cure a ham and you're fat, Fat, FAT!

Pish-Posh Challenge Week 3 - The Playlist

  The Pish-Posh Challenge Week Three:
Music to Run From

I am terrible at following directions, and pretty bad at keeping to my own plans unless they are really simple, preferably involving not doing things. I do not know why I ever thought I was bright, since that shit is important to getting by. It's a wondrous miracle that you can be a writer without most of that part of your brain.
  
Just not a really prolific, successful one, like Asimov in his time, or even Stephen King, who apparently generated more text every waking minute of his heyday than a possessed coke addict.