These last few days seem to disappear. I get into a habit of writing about my fascinating existences, a habit more accurately dubbed a fetish for its unhealthy ineptitude. These days that writing is on paper, not on screens. I mostly write about the previous night's dreams and whatever asssociations that inspires. Some days my hand can not write fast enough, other days it just wheezes along, making shit up as it goes.

This week the afternoon arrives and then the sun sets and I am still scrabbling for something constructive to accomplish. Too much to do? Or not enough direction? I don't know.

I wish I could have had that bank account set up today. The more I think about it, though, the more I see that it was doomed from the get-go (or "git-go", as I like to hear that expression) simply for lack of rapport with the banker, not to mention his unabashed ignorance of these type of funds. I am too fragile in my approach to this stuff to take much conflict, and stubborn, corporate ignorance is a form of conflict I can't much handle.

At least it lets me appreciate how everyone I've dealt with in these matters has, up until now, been more or less competent. Except for me, of course. Actually the old-guy stock broker was way out of his league with this stuff, and uninformed about the complexities of the trust that my dad actually left -- versus the relatively simple trust he drew up in 2002.

Anyway... Who the fuck cares.

I did stock up on pork chops today, per earlier declaration to that effect. Pork chops and sardines. Man I hate sardines. It's like taking medicine -- it's nasty to me when the tails are still on the fishes. It's like I'm eating a still-living thing, and the fishes seem to flip and flap their tails as I take them down. Then they swim into my innards and form schools, clogging my body with sardinular activity.

These days I cut the tails off before placing the sardine portions on a tasty Triscuit©.

Even the word "sardine" has a dour, frowning aura about it.

I eat that stuff for the sake of my eyes. My macularly degenerative eyes. I almost said "for the sake of the children."

O I hate the burps. Sardine burps. A dismal, unhappy taste.

These days I spell "oh" O, when "oh" is used as an "OH!" expletive sort of thing. I think O, naked as it is, is more expressive of shock and surprise than Oh. It evokes the shape of the mouth as it exclaims the sound of O, and the bugging out of the eyes.

A friend in high school once said that in addition to being the 15th letter of the alphabet O is sometimes (rarely) defined as a woman's vagina. I took his word for it but to this day have not looked that up for myself.

O!

Back in the day I used to amuse myself by calling voicemail systems and dialing extension 5000000000.

I would listen to the automated voicemail voice says "extension 5 Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh ... " is not available. I imagined she (the voice) was being whipped and tortured as she yelled OH! in response.

To keep the abuse going all I had to do was dial extensions in the octillion range.

Imagining a German nazi dick-tator scenario I would throw a nine into the mix, imagining the woman being whipped and paddled interrupting her OHs with NEIN (German for NO).

NEIN! OH! OH! OH! OH! NEIN! OH! OH! OH! OH! OH! OH! NEIN! OH!

That was extension 90000900000090, by the way. That extension did not answer.