All my iPhone seems to want to play on random is Led Zeppelin and Jack Johnson, which is a strange kind of aural competition. 

This chair is the reason I’m sitting here now. It’s eighty-five degrees in this room, the chair is leather, but still it’s worth it. 

Did you know that the oldest mammal in the world is actually a Canadian Grey squirrel named Squeekers (sic), at 247 years young? You shouldn’t, because I totally just made that up. 

Did you know that the idea generation process goes through a lot of unseen trial and error before a final product is pushed into your eyeballs? Were you aware that I have pages and pages of this stuff, these semi-random, largely unguided stupid musings, attached to almost every story I’ve written since I’ve been writing?

Oh, an example, you say. Well, here, quickly, first thing I find…

“The practical octopus wears cufflinks only on four legs, as no one ever wears cufflinks anywhere but their arms and if all your appendages have the same texture and tenacity it is perfectly acceptable in polite company to denominate half as legs and half as arms. This is in the way of elephants and their knees. Of course.”

From the notes on The God Note, a story that has nothing to do with any of the above, and has never been published, never will be published, don’t listen to my advice it’s not fit for mass consumption.

I’m wearing jeans, for some reason. Have no beverage to cool me. My travels of late have brought me to and from a household full of recovering influenziacs, mouth-barfers and butt-vomiters the lot of them, not while I was there of course but recently enough, so it’s hard to tell if this crack sweat is a product of the humid upstairs or the beginnings of a maleficent journey into the bowels of my bowels. Plus everyone at work is getting over something, so. Maybe if I stay up here and bake long enough the viri will lose faith in my person as a tenable environ. Tenable? Sure. A tenantable habitat. They will shrivel and shudder and curl up further into themselves, hoping to be sneezed a great distance and survive, the quest for life unquestionable even to the brainless microorganism. Expel and propel, matriculate and graduate and usher into the carrier Kleenex, to be borne and born anew. 

I remember I was writing a new story not long ago. That’s essential to the process too, the remembering. This is a good sign.

Not five lengthy paces from here is an air conditioned room wherein lies a bed and a pillow upon it, begging to refrigerate my face. But I have a chair and a desk and a faux fever and my fingers are warm which is also key. Can’t write for shit in the winter. Need, like, a cocoa I.V. come November, long sleeves even in a warm room because my body senses any nearby chill, and prepares.

What are the ten songs by ten discrete artists that would best introduce you as a person to another person. I have been assigned. I swear I will work on this tomorrow.

If I could steal anything in the world, I would.

And now with the Rusted Root. I don’t think so, iPhone, I’m feeling crazily enough.

Oh also Jack White, I guess. Any Jack will do, apparently.

Seven minutes to midnight. I can make it.

Squeekers is a rampant gambler, an addict of several sorts. You should see the piles of white dust at his place, mostly ground-up almonds, sure, but cut with a little Comet, or a Comet off-brand competitor, which Squeekers insists is not only a better buzz than the name brand but the key to his longevity. Also abstinence. Never busted a nut metaphorically in his life. Swears if you’d crack him open you’d find five pounds of squirrel jizz in a two-pound squirrel sack. If you’ve never seen a squirrel do a line as long as his body and then put his life savings on the Red Wings +2 against the formidable Blackhawks, well, come on up to South North Manitoba and pull up a stump, friend, you’re in for a show.

He’s got an enemy, a rival old-as-balls mammalian, a gopher named Satan, who promises one day to catch Squeekers asleep and jerk him off vigorously until the little fool passes, and passes. Soon as Satan learns to climb a tree.

I think that’s enough.