Do-do-do-do-do-do-do, but not Vanilla Ice or Queen, Just as I Feel It {Duh-DUH}

by Shaina

Sometimes, when the world feels too big, I tie my head on, because Temple Grandin was right, you know what I mean, about the pressure.  Or lay on me.  The sun felt so good today, and I think we were right when we said that the fried bologna sandwiches reminded us how we know death is coming, that life is ending before our eyes, how we took the first and best bite knowing full well that nothing would be better than that for at least the rest of the day, but what really is a day, like Sylvia Plath said in The Bell Jar: as soon as you stop sleeping, there stop being days, and then why bathe or change your outfit.  But I digress–what we meant was that the eating of the fried bologna sandwich was the purest example of our existentialism.  It goes the sandwich will be gone, but we choose to make it despite this tragic truth, death is imminent, etc.  And it reminds me, in relation to love, that ducks stay together, I have heard, and the time the one fell down our chimney and its lover was sitting on our roof, waiting for him.  Animal control took him far away, and that makes me hope they had their fried bologna at least.  And the most fucked up thing–and the most beautiful thing–was the children talking while we were saying these sandwich death truths and the way they were immune to them.  Their high little voices bubbling forth from short vocal chords, as if to say, your voice is low, weighed down by truths and knowing shit.  Much in the way I can’t hear the frequency children can only hear because of how many times my ear drums ruptured in my childhood: I wonder: was it really the ear drums that aged the ears.  Or was it the time I saw the Jerry Springer-type show about the vomiting during sex fetish when I was four, flipping channels alone.  It’s much in these ways the sandwich is gone.  And a detail I failed to mention was the way that we made two sandwiches and ate the second one first.  Last-in-first-out, which is a joke I have with myself involving cooking versus accounting, and no one usually is there to laugh about it with me, but I think it anyway.  Anyway…might be the best way to describe the idea of keeping breathing even if it makes no sense.  Because of curiosity for things to come, and it’s funny, you know, that curiosity killed the cat, since the cat would die anyway.  When I was a kid, I found a cat and we fed it bologna and milk; do you note the curliness of the way that things happen, the way they queue up, in, and out.  The old in-out-in-out, as Alex said, reminds me that we are a world of revolving doors just trying to get stuck sometimes, sometimes wishing the person might not go or even that the sandwich might proliferate, be an everlasting gobstopper, much as the idea of finality gives me the peace I need when I tie on my head in the morning.

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